


Width and Breadth

by raven_aorla



Series: Made to Measure [6]
Category: Criminal Minds, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BDSM, Crossover, Dubious Morality, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Families of Choice, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Including the original meaning of the word, Indian Hill Escapee, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Non-Sexual Submission, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Brainwashing, Past Child Abuse, Pets, Polyamory, Queerness of All Descriptions, Recurring Hallucinations, Spencer Reid as Unsub, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-12-18 05:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11867505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: A collection of loosely linked stories. Ed's successfully conditioned his cousin from FBI agent Dr. Spencer Reid to honorable supervillain the Reader. This is not an entirely comfortable thing. Ed's protege Jonathan juggles his mental health, studies, and questionable hobbies. Assassins are adorable, to each other at least. Young ladies who kill together chill together. All while the Kings of Gotham are happily married, to the mixed feelings of the city in general.Tags will evolve as they become applicable when new ficlets are added. So far we have:1. Bantam Begins - There's a chicken.2. J. Crane Sexual Experimentation Log - Because good scientists take notes.3. Of All the Trees That Are in the Wood - 20-year-old Harley falls into the world of crime, and also for Ivy.4. & 5. If You Would Stem the Tide - A two-part story about Jonathan temporarily but horrifically relapsing.6. & 7. Render Me a Wreck - A two-part parallel to the previous story, from Ed's perspective.





	1. Bantam Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's now a fic compatible with this series, yet also compatible with irisbleufic's. We cowrote a Cards Against Humanity game featuring several characters. [Check it out here.](http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/26763843?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_122456919)
> 
> Inspired by a conversation with irisbleufic about how I thought their AU should involve a pet, realizing the silly anagram I could make, and [this video of the actor who plays Spencer Reid hypnotizing a chicken.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s27wzCasOt4)
> 
> Contains references to killing someone's pet chickens for intimidation purposes.

Ever since Oswald became convinced that Ed’s cousin (second cousin, whatever ) really wasn’t going to revert to his old FBI ways, he’d welcomed Spencer Reid’s presence in their lives. Spencer was pleasant. He was helpful in a crisis, though his remaining soft spot for all non-corrupt law enforcement had to be kept in check. He had a knack for predicting what their enemies were going to do next. He’d had the grace and sense to get his own place less than a year after he came around and didn’t need to be chained up in a spare room anymore. 

Most importantly, he balanced out Ed’s life. Not that Ed’s life wasn’t well-populated. Ed was invaluable as Oswald’s full partner in running their criminal empire. He pseudo-fathered Jonathan Crane and cooed over Ivy Pepper’s plants. Barbara Kean provided him with a stimulating frenemy with whom to trade, well, barbs. 

But now, with Spencer as the Reader, Ed’s Riddler self had an appropriately over-the-top fellow showboating genius to help him play mind games with hapless pawns, while also cautioning him against dangerous excess when he wouldn’t listen to others. The Reader could read people on a level the Riddler could not, making their gambits go more smoothly and adding a level of psychological distress to their quarry.

There was one major drawback: the Reader liked to spare as many lifeforms as he thought possible, even when it was impractical. And it was rubbing off on the Riddler.

****

On the night when this excessive mercy reached new heights, Oswald was up late going over the accounts for their largest money-laundering fronts and making sure everything added up. There was no substitute for checking these things himself, and he understood money better than Ed or Spencer did, despite Spencer’s Ph.D in _theoretical_ mathematics.

He heard R&R making a ruckus in the foyer and carefully made his way downstairs. Despite the blinding emerald-ness of his suit and dirty smudges on his face, Ed was entirely too dashing to resist. He swept Oswald into one of their usual embraces after the Riddler had hung up his hat up for now. 

Then Oswald looked at Spencer, who hadn’t taken his mask off yet. Ed rarely wore a mask ever since their little team had amassed sufficient blackmail fodder on the entire GCPD to neutralize them, but Spencer was still worried about the FBI. Beyond the mask, he also grew and dyed a thin moustache for his new civilian identity and added fake additions to give the Reader a goatee. His mystique was currently being undermined by the fact that he was holding a small chicken in his arms. It was lying on its back and seemed to be in a trance.

“What’s with the chicken?” Oswald asked warily, untangling himself from his husband.

Ed cringed a little as if expecting an argument. “So Spencer and I went to see the curator of the gallery to get her to agree to showcase the paintings of the daughter of that real estate magnate you’re trying to peacefully make a deal with. We know his gratitude at the gesture will improve negotiations. Despite those paintings being a nauseating eyesore, which we freely admitted to the curator. It turns out she has - well, had -”

“She’s not dead, she just doesn’t have all her poultry anymore,” Spencer clarified, kicking off his shoes without letting go of the chicken. “Though we unfortunately had to destroy a few in order to show how seriously we follow through on threats.”

Turning to help Spencer remove his hat and mask, Ed continued, “Indeed. She had a bunch of laying hens in her expansive yard as part of her self-sufficiency hippie ethos. I did give her a chance to save each chicken if she could answer an accompanying riddle.”

“They were very easy. Ed was generous.”

“Spencer was the one who saw how much she loved these hens. I thought that leaving her with one or two would provide us with future leverage, but I don’t give things away unless people earn them. She answered two of the riddles correctly, so she kept two out of the seven.”

Oswald felt a headache coming on. He loved Ed more than he loved anyone or anything else in the world, and he’d become fond of Spencer, but neither of them were good at getting to the point. “This is one of the chickens she won back.”

“Nooooo, no no,” Ed pointed at it. “Look.”

“I’m looking.”

“She’s black and white.”

“So?”

“One of her feet’s crooked.”

“So?”

“She looks like she’s wearing a tuxedo. And she limps. Her comb also somewhat resembles - well.”

After looking back and forth from the seemingly comatose chicken to the pair of space cadets before him, Oswald said, “I’m not sure whether to find that insulting or endearing.”

“Ed couldn’t bear to kill her and wouldn’t let me, either, so we told the curator that we had compassion for the disabled, regardless of species, and would care for this hen as our own. I hypnotized her for ease of transport.” Spencer placed her on the floor, still on her back. He said softly, “Now on the count of three, Cordelia, you will come out of your trance.”

“I hate to cast aspersions, but…” Oswald began.

Spencer paid no heed. “One...two...three!” 

“AWK!” Cordelia flipped onto her feet and started flapping wildly. 

“How did you know how to do that?” Oswald asked.

“I’m from Las Vegas.” Spencer provided no other explanation. He shrugged off his jacket and continued otherwise shedding the visual aspects of his persona except the beard.

“I’ll go get the chicken feed we confiscated. It’s in the car. It’ll be beneficial for her to have outside time, in order to forage for insects and plants, but bantam hens such as herself live only 1-3 years if kept solely outdoors. Predators and exposure. Spencer, get something we can put water in. Don’t worry, Oswald, bantams don’t get any larger than this, and the females are fairly docile. And not particularly loud.” Ed smiled at Oswald and ran outside before Oswald could reply. 

“When she’s indoors and unsupervised, we can put her in the room you used to keep me in,” Spencer said nonchalantly. He headed to the kitchen to find a container. Sometimes Oswald wondered how much Spencer had been naturally converted to Ed’s point of view versus how of much might be lingering Stockholm Syndrome. Oswald didn’t feel particularly bad about it, not even about beating him that time he tried to escape. Ed taking him in, though unwillingly, and getting him in tune with the rest of the household had been the best alternative to killing him when all those other agents had to die…

Oh. 

_Cordelia resembled more than one person in the family._

Spencer poked his head out of the kitchen and looked at Oswald. Ed was four years younger than Oswald, and Spencer three years younger than Ed, but when flushed with the adrenalin high of an R&R outing Spencer looked about nineteen. “Don’t you have any Tupperware? I don’t want to risk a nice bowl until we know her pecking habits. Even hens are capable of pecking each other to death when under stress. I don’t know about their effects on ceramics. ”

“You’re both presuming with very little grounds that I’m going to tolerate this chicken running amok in my mansion,” Oswald grumbled.

“She’s not running amok,” Spencer’s voice came from the kitchen. “Look at her. She can’t go very fast.”

Indeed, Cordelia’s progress towards the fireplace, which seemed to intrigue her, was laborious at best. Nevertheless. “You’re cleaning up after her. Not Olga, and certainly not me.”

Ed wrapped an arm around Oswald’s waist from behind and kissed his neck. “Does that mean we can keep her?”

Only one person could get away with sneaking up on Oswald like that without getting sliced with something sharp. But Oswald couldn’t help melting. Most of the annoyance went out of his voice.“How are you two dizzyingly-IQ-ed men both such children sometimes?”

“Because you take such good care of us,” Ed murmured close to Oswald’s ear. Then turned him around to look him in the eye. When Ed went out on an adventure without Oswald, he tended to be even more voracious than usual on his return. It was perhaps worth at the sudden insistence on a housepet. Perhaps.

“I can sort out Cordelia if you two have, uh, somewhere to be.” Oswald couldn’t see Spencer blushing, but he could hear it.

****

Many hours later, Oswald woke after a dream involving dozens of chickens that kept breeding asexually and making purring noises at everyone except Oswald. They shrieked at him. Like those wibble/tribble/whatever things and if Oswald was an Klingon. When it had just been Ed, Oswald managed to dodge Star Trek marathons, but Spencer was an appalling geekery enabler and they ganged up on him with both that and Doctor Who. 

He untangled himself from Ed’s spider monkey limbs, patting his cheek in apology for the dissatisfied sleep-mumble this caused. He put on his slippers and a robe. Then he padded to “the Bare Room”, the notorious en suite/former prison that they’d recently stripped of furniture. 

When he opened the door to the Bare Room, it was still bare. He checked the We Gave Up and Now It’s Jonathan’s Guest Room - plenty of Japanese comics and ragged t-shirts scattered about, but no chicken. He checked Ed’s Bachelor Room and Study (Oswald had his own home office on the ground floor), which had his beloved collection of vinyl records, his frumpy old bed for naps or waiting out marital strife, a dangling model of a full human skeleton, a desk with randomly overstuffed drawers, and various other bric-a-brac from his former apartment that he couldn’t bear to part with. No chicken. Oswald checked the normal guest room, which was unchanged since Oswald inherited the place. Its perfect normalcy and tidiness included the lack of an indoor chicken. There were other rooms on this floor, but all but one were unused, filled with objects now gathering dust. Those were the private rooms of the Van Dahls, the one Oswald loved and the ones Oswald butchered. 

All but one last functioning room. Oswald was reluctant to disturb Spencer in the middle of the night. Spencer might not live here full-time anymore, but this remained his safe space, his isle of privacy and tranquility. But after some thought, Oswald knocked.

“Not locked,” came slow, faint words.

Oswald opened the door. They’d rather forcefully cured Spencer of his fear of the dark, but Spencer still used a night-light when he’d been having nightmares, and he had one on now. It cast a soft glow over him, his plumply blanketed twin-sized bed, and the chicken sleeping soundly in a haphazard nest of rags and crumpled newspapers on the floor. More newspapers lined the rest of the floor, and there was water and food laid out.

“Energy crashed before I could set up other room….observation is good on first night...learn...habits,” Spencer yawned and curled around an additional pillow to the one under his head.

“That’s fine,” Oswald replied, and shut the door. 

****

“You’re not leaving until you and Ed have set up appropriate chicken infrastructure,” Oswald said the moment Spencer came down for breakfast.

Ed looked up from the morning paper and frowned. “Oswald, we don’t forbid Spencer from leaving anymore.”

“I know what he meant, don’t worry.” Spencer showed them a small egg cradled in one hand. “Bantam eggs are about a third of the size of commercially available ones, but they lay them frequently and they’re supposed to be good. I’m going to show Olga. _Zdravstvuyte, Olga!_ ”

After breakfast, during which Spencer and Ed seemed to be competing for the most already-memorized chicken facts, Oswald reminded Ed that they had work to do. Spencer vowed to read up on poultry care.

“Normally animals don’t like me, but I think Cordelia and I have an understanding,” Spencer said with utmost seriousness. “I’ll take her outside today. Foraging will provide her with exercise and a more varied diet.”

When they got home, they could see Spencer in the backyard doing his usual speed runs through a stack of books while Cordelia bobbled her way around. She saw an airplane go overhead and rapidly limped over to Spencer’s side making worried noises until the shadow passed.

“He’s paler than I like,” Ed said quietly. 

Oswald squeezed Ed’s hand. “We don’t need to call him in just yet.”

****

Spencer didn’t leave that day, or the next day. With Ed’s help Cordelia ended up with a small outdoor coop as well as a movable indoor one. He wrote down a bunch of notes for Ed and Oswald.

“I’m going to go after a serial murderer/rapist tonight. The Bridge Snatcher?” Spencer announced when he came downstairs with his suitcase shortly after dinner. He was almost fully in Reader getup. “I was researching Cordelia’s care as breaks between less pleasant research. I’m going straight to my place after.”

“How nice,” Oswald said from his position curled up in front of the fire. He had no problem with Spencer going after criminals who weren’t on Oswald’s payroll if he didn’t get himself in too much trouble. It weeded out competition and gave Spencer an outlet for his remaining righteous anger. In this case, the Bridge Snatcher was a rather tawdry blot on the landscape Oswald wouldn’t be sorry to see gone.

Ed looked up from his crossword. “Need backup?”

“Unlikely, but I’ll call whoever of my contacts is closest. If I don’t check in by two AM, I sanction a rescue party.” Spencer gave Ed a reassuring smile. “Also, my notes for Cordelia are on the dining table. The most important points are highlighted.”

Ed nodded. “Have a good night, Spencer. Make sure your gun has a full clip. What’s the word for sparks you see when your eyes are closed and you rub them?”

“Phosphenes!” Spencer put on his hat and practical yet stylish boots, then the mask. 

“Have fun!” Oswald called out.

Spencer texted Ed at twelve minutes to midnight to confirm he was home and fine except for falling out of a tree. 

“He just clarified that was a small tree,” Ed said, sounding unamused. “Jonathan broke both legs falling out of a small tree when he was ten.”

Oswald resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Dr. Spencer Reid is a grown man. Now you can put down the phone.” 

****

“Falcone had a number of henhouses at his residence, didn’t he?”

Peering over his newspaper, Oswald evaluated his husband’s expression for seriousness, and mentally labeled it Excessive. “Yes, but whenever I had an audience with him I didn’t exactly spend much time gawking at his pets.”

“Olga was saying that having a chicken doesn’t befit us, but it’s actually a proud tradition. Omelet?”

****

“The first known written use of ‘chicken’ to mean ‘fearful’ or ‘cowardly’ is from the year 1600,” Spencer offered. “From William Kemp’s Nine Days’ Wonder: _‘It did him good to have ill words of a hoddy doddy! a hebber de hoy!, a chicken! a squib.’_ ”

“I’m surprised ‘hebber de hoy’ wasn’t the one that caught on,” Jonathan said dryly, taking a seat at the table Spencer had set up in one of the previously unused Van Dahl bedrooms. Cordelia was allowed to roam indoors in controlled, contained areas with no valuable rugs. Spencer had laid out a tarp.

Ivy took a seat across from him and diagonally from Spencer. “She’s adorable, Nico. I didn’t know grown chickens could be that small.” Ivy had recently learned Spencer’s new identity as “Nicholas Anderson”. Unlike Jonathan, she didn’t know his past. 

Cordelia went _bawk_ and pecked at Ivy’s pink shoe.

Spencer nudged Cordelia away from Ivy with his foot. “She doesn’t like brightly colored shoes.”

Jonathan nodded as he opened his binder and took out a fresh pen. “One of the crows I feed goes after anything red. I think they might hope it’s an open wound they can expand.” Jonathan used singular ‘they’ for individual crows because he wasn’t able to tell their physical sex from casual inspection,

“You’re just a bundle of joy, aren’t you?” Ivy had a bunch of random pieces of scrap paper and a heavily nibbled pencil.

Spencer held up his miniature white board and brandished his dry-erase marker. “All right, so the lab report you gave me showed excellent methodology, but it’s clear both of you need to know more organic chemistry to get any further in perfecting Paperboy for widespread recreational use. This is a tutoring session, not a formal lecture, so feel free to interrupt -”

At which point Cordelia attacked Spencer’s customary quirky mismatched socks. 

****

Olga eventually demanded Cordelia leave after she found an egg inside an improbable place the hard way for a fifth time. “She likes Spencer best, he should take her.”

“She’s sitting between your feet,” Oswald told him.

Spencer wrung his hands. “I barely feed myself on a regular schedule, and I’m gone all the time.”

Ed patted his shoulder. “You’re very smart. Give it a try. If you honestly can’t, give her to Jonathan or Ivy or the Zsasz Family or something. Don’t give her back to the original owner, though. It sets a bad precedent.”

“It’d look bad if I gave it back,” Spencer agreed, nudging her gently with his foot. He’d learned to only wear dark socks in her presence.

****

“So if you hold chickens upside down, they’ll be docile,” Spencer said. “I don’t expect you to have my amazing chicken hypnosis abilities.”

“I think I might know how to take care of chickens,” Thistle said, from her position on the floor of Spencer’s cottage, petting Cordelia with gloved hands. “I think...I seem to know how to take care of lots of farm animals.”

“I heard, that’s why I called you over. Procedural memory is stored separately from other types of memory, and if you died of amatoxin poisoning from a destroying angel mushroom it would make more sense for you to have lived in a rural setting and mistakenly foraged for them.” Spencer took a seat on his newly purchased couch. The cottage had come with one that he didn’t like. 

Victor Zsasz’s newest apprentice was an Indian Hill escapee whose first memories were of Hugo Strange’s laboratory, and being told that she was a vital first step in creating a universal poison antidote. Her age was estimated at somewhere between 18-23. She’d chosen the full name “Amethyst Smith” for herself, pleased with her wordplay on multiple levels.

“You’re so sure it was a destroying angel mushroom,” she said, experimentally picking Cordelia up for a cuddle. Cordelia was being even more friendly than usual.

“Destroying angel and death cap mushrooms cause amatoxin poisoning when ingested, which is the only form of poisoning for which extracts from the milk thistle are a fairly standard and effective remedy. Death caps are native to Europe while destroying angels may be found in our region, so the latter is more likely. Except it’s generally not given in such quantities - presumably alongside other exotic ingredients - with such dramatic results. Generally it saves the liver rather than giving you a...super-liver.” Spencer could make out a few prickles on the back of her neck when she turned her head. She’d recently cut her black hair into a short, layered bob. It was such a chore keeping up with the prickles that Thistle usually just shaved her face and neck and covered up everything else to keep from scratching things. They had replaced her body hair and grew at the same rate. She had to use a well-sharpened straight razor. 

On the upside, she was also immune to poison and had a metabolism that gave her incredible physical endurance, to the point of only needing to sleep for eight hours out of every seventy-two, and not necessarily consecutively. CdZ medic Dr. Kali sometimes consulted with Spencer about Thistle’s condition, given his Chemistry Ph.D. and general extensive polymath knowledge base. “But why do I know how to fight?”

“I’m not the person to ask.” 

“So she’ll live here but I’ll take care of her when you can’t,” Thistle clarified. The whimsically named Casa del Zsasz was right up the road. They’d driven away their former neighbors and happily made a deal with Spencer when his third-wheeling at Ed’s mansion started risking marital strife. 

“I’m not sure I can take care of anything at all. I’m...I remember who I used to be, but it feels like a long time ago.” He almost said that he sometimes wished he had a clean slate, but that would be insensitive. 

“Chickens can’t fly, right?” Thistle asked. She tested as having approximately a twelfth-grade education, and she did a lot of self-study when everyone else was sleeping. Spencer suggested books to her sometimes. She learned fast.

“No.”

“That’s sad, having wings and not flying.” She put Cordelia down and got up. “I’ve got, um, a date?”

“That’s great.” Some of her new family were protective of her and dubious about her dating, even if Titus “Teeth” Heath was a former resident of Casa del Zsasz who’d gone on to live in and maintain another of their properties. Spencer approved of her reclaiming normalcy, though. That was always the most heartening thing to see in a survivor. “Tonight?”

“No, tomorrow, but I have to start shaving.” She gestured at the rest of her body with a half-smile. 

“Right.”

“You might be like me, and not know for sure you can do things until you try them. Bye, Cordelia. Bye...did your friends used to call you Spencer?”

“Actually, most of them called me Reid,” Spencer said softly.

She smiled. “Then bye, Reid.”

Alone with the chicken, Spencer moved to sprawl sideways on the couch. “There’s some chicken feed for you in the corner.”

 _“Bawk,”_ she said, settling under the coffee table instead.

“I remember the Nun’s Priest’s Tale, you know. Every word. Mom read it to me. It has a famous rooster in it. Chanticleer.”

_“Bawk.”_

Spencer looked up towards the ceiling, folding his arms and letting the words come to mind. _“A povre wydwe, somdeel stape in age was whilom dwellyng in a narwe cotage biside a grove, stondynge in a dale. This wydwe, of which I telle yow my tale, syn thilke day that she was last a wyf, in pacience ladde a ful symple lyf…”_

_“Awk?”_

“The rooster comes into it eventually, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cordelia's habit of attacking brightly colored footwear is based on a pet chicken of my acquaintance.
> 
> My new novel is [ available in ebook and print form on Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07DSLT3D2/ref=mp_s_a_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1529183871&sr=8-2&pi=AC_SX236_SY340_FMwebp_QL65&keywords=Donaya+Haymond&dpPl=1&dpID=51cFXjiasBL&ref=plSrch), and in [print from the Barnes & Noble site.](https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/seasons-turning-donaya-haymond/1129067787?ean=9780999202654)


	2. J. Crane Sexual Experimentation Log

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to dubcon, various triggers, and dissociation.

_Basic data. Detailed numerical analysis of sensations and emotions in separate document._

_Addendum: Record currently spans ages 16-21. Events only logged when they involve completely new major experience(s)._

*

Event 1

With: Harleen Quinzel, cis girl

New Experience(s): Being kissed

Notes: Without permission. Resulted in panic and fleeing, likely from combination of surprise and excess of romantic feelings I was unable to return. Situation resolved into ongoing, hands-off friendship.

*

Event 2

With: Mitchell Brooks, cis man

New Experience(s): Being kissed with tongue, being groped, frottage. According to state law, as he was in a position of authority over me as my schoolteacher, it was also statutory sexual assault.

Notes: Consciously arranged as blackmailing scheme. Unpleasant, though lucrative. Subsequent assault on me (attempted strangulation, unknown endgame speculated to be rape and/or murder) resulted in Brooks’ gratifying demise.

*

Event 3

With: Nefyn Pontiac, cis man

New Experience(s): Initiating kiss, variety of kiss types, stroking of hair

Notes: Excellent.

*

Event 4

With: Selina Kyle, cis girl

New Experience(s): Mutual scratching and biting. Giving and receiving orgasm. Receiving manual stimulation to genitals. Manual stimulation of clitoris and labia, digital penetration of vagina.

Notes: Convivial and engaging. Continuing friendship with understanding of it having been one-time encounter.

*

Event 5

With: Nefyn Pontiac, cis man

New Experience(s): Receiving fellatio, receiving and later giving anal penetration

Notes: Fellatio canceled upon request, too intimate and generous. Otherwise excellent.

*

Event 6

With: Nefyn Pontiac

New Experience(s): Being lifted and held against a wall for penetrative sex. After a recovery period, giving, then successfully receiving fellatio. Cuddles.

Notes: Finally, being a "precious little Slenderman" - as questionable a compliment that is - has been good for something other than scarecrow mimicry. It appears that a balance in oral giving and receiving cancels out earlier emotional discomfort, which is an empowering development. Cuddles nice for the first five minutes, then overwhelmingly intimate and changed to hand-holding instead.

*

Event 7

With: Annabelle Little, cis girl

New Experience(s): Cunnilingus, hair being pulled

Notes: Satisfying. And here I thought going to Homecoming without a date (in effort to assuage therapist’s concern re missing out on traditional adolescent milestones) might prove a waste of time. Little’s boyfriend doesn’t know. Their relationship issues are not my concern. Not like he ever does it for her anyway.

*

Event 8

With: Nefyn Pontiac

New Experience(s): Consensually tying up someone, use of symbolic collar, erotic asphyxiation, knifeplay, cuddles as part of aftercare.

Notes: Was unable to relax until Pontiac demonstrated ability to escape if desired. Bruises rather lovely. Knife sterile and cuts too shallow to bleed beyond slight reddening, and responsibly given first aid. Cuddles pleasant when seen as utilitarian.

*

Event 10:

With: Nefyn Pontiac

New Experience(s): BDSM with Scarecrow roleplay

Notes: Nefyn called yellow, and after discussion we continued sans persona. _“It was more fucking terrifying than I expected, and Victor Zsasz has been domming me since I was nineteen.”_

*

Event 11:

With: Nefyn Pontiac

New Experience(s): Prearranged pseudo-somnophilia when psych meds were causing severe drowsiness and pliancy.

Notes: Remembered as a sort of tender haze. Subsequently informed I was ‘adorable’. Will repeat and possibly record.

*

Event 12

With: Nefyn Pontiac

New Experience(s): Being tied up

Notes: Called red partway through, agreed to being held while describing experiences as my father’s accomplice. Sex adjourned in favor of pizza and humorous film.

*

Event 13

With: Nefyn Pontiac and Leonara Patterson, cis woman

New Experience(s): M/M/F threesome, voyeurism, vaginal sex.

Notes: Nearly overwhelming, but good.

*

Event 14

With: Candace Maroni, trans woman. Pontiac observed but did not participate.

New Experience(s): Incorporation of melted chocolate.

Notes: Giggly.

*

Event 15

With: The Reader (still not going to use his name in case this is found)

New Experience(s): Near-immediate regret

Notes: Was moment of overexcitement after near-death experience. Mutual decision less than fifteen minutes in that this was a mistake. Adjourned in favor of platonic dinner and documentary on Carl Jung.

*

Event 16

With: ?

New Experience(s): I don’t remember what happened after we went out to do some field testing of the new fear gas. I said we’d done well together and I wanted to go home, and the Scarecrow said it didn’t want to yet, that we hardly ever go out anymore, that it wants to try the pleasures I won’t let it join in on. I woke up in my room. My body’s telling me a clear story. The Scarecrow’s never been careful with me, as long as I don’t die. I’ve let it temporarily take over with me in the passenger’s seat before, but this is the first time it’s hijacked the whole car other than just making me scream useslessly.

Notes: I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Au for more medication adjustments. I’ll tell my therapist I dissociated but don’t want to check in anywhere. I know she’ll advise it, because these are big new symptoms after we worked so hard to get rid of old symptoms, but I’ve got too much to do. I’ll have Nefyn stay over for a few days, or I’ll stay at Nygma’s mansion, or Reader’s place. I wish I could talk to Harley about this.

Oh, and STD testing, I should do that. But I’m gonna take the day off and just chill until Nefyn can get here if he’s not working. The other person likely had no idea what our deal is. Maybe the Reader can go see for me if any unplanned crimes happened. He’s good at that kind of intel gathering.

**I’m going to squish you into the tiniest corner of my brain so you will know to only surface when _called for_ and _never ever ever ever_ take the driver’s seat without permission again, you raggedy strawfuck.**

*

Event 17

With: Nefyn Pontiac

New Experience(s): Outdoor sex on a picnic blanket

Notes: One of the crows I feed thought I was there to share my feast. Otherwise soothing. I’ve been doing better in the months since Event 16, no repeat incidents, but he’s still careful with me.

*

Event 18

With: Destiny (last name not provided), cis woman

New Experience(s): Improvised solution. Attempt to lure new non-lethal test subject via dating site went sideways.

Notes: She showed up early and caught me not masked yet, so I had to either kill her afterwards or make it a legit date. Sex wasn’t bad, but have closed my account. Nygma gently teased me when I reported back.

*

Event 19

With: Nefyn Pontiac

New Experience(s): Coitus interruptus. I managed to hide in the hotel room closet, but was not only maskless but naked.

Notes: If Batman tries to shake information out of Nefyn again because he's too cowardly to go directly to Nefyn's boss, I’m going to give him enough of the intravenous fear serum he’ll need to take as much medication as I do for the rest of his life to have even modicum of sanity. I was treating Nefyn to a fancy change of setting for his birthday. Asshole.

*

Event 20

With: Trans woman who didn’t volunteer her name

New Experience(s): Picked her up in a bar despite being a non-drinker myself.

Notes: She called me _Daddy_. Left in a hurry. Thankfully did not have any sort of episode other than dry heaves. Have resolved to warn sexual partners in future.

 

Event 21

With: Nefyn Pontiac

New Experience(s): Verbally expressed strong feelings of affection at moment of climax. Freaked out a little afterwards until he pinned me down, which is different from bondage and not triggering. Said things about how if I identify as aromantic, that’s my right and nobody can take that from me, and he doesn’t care what kind it is or what I want to say it is. He said it’s nice to hear.

Notes: Yes, I need to update this log right now. Yes. I do. I’ll come back to bed in a moment. Yes, this is me being passive-aggressive. Stop reading over my shoulder.

 

 

I love you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan would be up for trying sex with a trans man, but he hasn't met any interested ones. Just to be clear.


	3. Of All the Trees That Are in The Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Harley gets from meeting Ivy to actually asking her on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scene immediately follows [chapter 23 of Intangible Quantities, which works as a ficlet in and of itself](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11033349/chapters/26220528). All you really need to know is that 20-year-old Harley fled to Jonathan's house for advice on what to do after killing her boyfriend during a fight in a fit of panic, and accidentally found out about Jonathan's other life when several of his other friends dropped by unannounced. And Ivy offered to make Harley some soothing herbal tea.

It’s good tea. Suspiciously good. Harley’s starting to relax so much that she might end up lying on the kitchen table rather than leaning against it. “Is there something in here that’s gonna mind-control me or give me amnesia or make me fall under your sway or something?” 

Ivy giggles. “Nah, I use perfume for that. I like how you didn’t ask until after you drank some.” She opens Jonathan’s fridge for a rummage and takes out a Fizzy Lizzy. A brand of drink Jonathan is extremely fond of. Brave woman. 

“By this point, I don’t think I’d mind any of those things that much. I figure you aren’t gonna kill me in Jonathan’s house with him a few feet away, so the rest is meh.” Harley sits in one of the kitchen chairs before she gives into the urge to sprawl on the tabletop. “I feel like I might have seen you in the news. _Poison_ Ivy?”

“Yep.” Ivy sits across from her and takes several gulps. “The one and only.” 

Harley whispers, “I just killed my boyfriend. I can’t believe I just killed my boyfriend. I’m lost in the woods.”

“I’m sure he had it coming,” Ivy says gently. Harley doesn’t think him trying to beat her up out of misplaced jealousy really warranted her beating him to death with a fishing rod, but she doesn’t feel guilty. Just shocked. Including at not feeling guilty. 

“You should get some sleep,” Jonathan says from behind her. “It’s going to be a rough day tomorrow. Nygma’s gonna talk to Cobblepot whether we can pin this on someone else - a member of the underworld who had beef with his dad, I mean, not some random innocent person - but you’re gonna have to do your part to push suspicion away from yourself.”

“I didn’t hear about Percy’s dad being involved with any underworld people,” Harley replies. The rest is too much to think about right now.

Jonathan pushes his new glasses up his nose. The frames are thin, gold-rimmed. “Every significantly rich or powerful person in Gotham is, even if it’s just by having made specific enemies.”

“I gotta get back to my girls,” Ivy says, almost apologetically. She pats Harley on the shoulder on the way out. 

“You’re going to replace that,” Jonathan says, pointing at the bottle in Ivy’s hand.

“When you replace all the Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey you ate last time you were at our house for a strategy meeting,” Ivy retorts. Then she’s gone.

“Is Nygma still in the living room?” Harley asks, draining the last of the mug. 

“No. He went to move your Vespa to the shed, since we might get sleet later, and straight to his car from there. He’ll call in the morning about the plan moving forward. C’mon, there’s nothing more important for you now than rest.” Jonathan puts the mug in the sink and accompanies her up the stairs. She’s found refuge with Jonathan enough times that she keeps a few changes of clothes and some spare toiletries here.

“Hell of a Friday night,” Harley comments quietly. The world is becoming fuzzy around the edges in a welcome sort of way.

“I’ve kinda wanted to be able to tell you for awhile, ” Jonathan says, opening the guest bedroom door for her. “Though jury’s out on how much detail I can give, or how you’ll feel about it.”

“I feel safe here,” she says, and realizes that she still feels safer at Jonathan’s place than with her folks, despite having just walked in on half a wing of the Rogues' Gallery and learning he’s one of them. 

Jonathan goes so far as to usher her towards the bed, turn on the bedside lamp, and close the curtains. “Ivy’s younger than she looks, into women, and single, by the way. She was referring to her roommates. I suppose you could argue for a queerplatonic kind of deal with them, and the situation’s changed over time in ways I don’t fully understand, but at present and on that level the playing field’s clear. She’s like Nefyn in that she’s sweet and kind to people who aren’t in her way, and devoted to people she cares about...”

“Jump the gun much? I just killed my boyfriend!”

“You mentioned. I’m not pushing you. But I saw how you looked at her. No shame in it.” One corner of his mouth goes up a fraction.

She’s too tired to argue, and falls asleep seconds after he leaves without even changing her clothes. Though she does manage to turn off the lamp. Ivy probably wouldn’t take kindly to not following such basic environmental measures, given the stories about her taking down polluting factories and such. 

***

Harley suspects that for the majority of people, accepting help from this crowd would be a deal with the devil: only temporary gain with one hundred percent chance of eventual downfall. By bizarre luck, though, Jonathan has turned out to be the closest thing Edward Nygma has to a son. This is not an entirely comforting notion but it’s saving her butt right now. This is more like a deal with the Fae. There’s going to be a price, and her hands are going to get dirtier rather than cleaner. But they mean her no harm at the outset, and if she holds her part of the bargain, she thinks she just might be okay. 

The first favor is to her advantage, even. She gets to live in a nice little townhouse near campus if she provides sanctuary and first aid - which she learned for two summers of life guarding - to certain people whenever they come knocking. This is how she meets Ivy’s “girls”.

Harley gets back very late on another Friday night and finds a young woman about her age eating a sandwich in front of the TV. There’s a large, leaking weapon resting on a bunch of spread-out towels on the coffee table. She’s dressed in one of the generic sets of sweatpants, t-shirts, and hoodies Harley’s been instructed to stockpile in various sizes, suggesting her other clothes are either in the wash or are no longer wearable. 

“You must be Firefly,” Harley says, putting down her purse and hanging up her coat. Jonathan’s advised her to treat every Rogue and Zsaszette/Zsaszeur like a regular person and just roll with all the weirdness. 

“You can call me Bridgit,” she says, smiling. “Riddles says it’s okay to just eat anything from the fridge as long as you haven’t labeled it as yours.”

“That’s right. You need anything or just to chill out for a bit?”

“When I’m not starving, I need to fix up my flamethrower. I’ve got tools stashed. Fuel tank got damaged. Woulda been fucked if I wasn’t fireproof. This is why I don’t wear clothes I like when I’m on a job. Cat’s taking a shower. She got slime on her. Don’t ask.” 

“I’m going to get a snack myself, then.” Harley finds out that all the dirty dishes she’d left behind are now in the dishwasher. When she returns to the living room with some chips and salsa she asks if Bridgit did them.

“Ain’t no thang.” Bridgit pats the seat beside her. She’s turned the channel to a rerun of a Ninja Turtle cartoon. 

The aforementioned Cat - aka Catwoman aka Selina Kyle aka someone Harley’s secretly found pretty kickass every since she first made the news - wanders in, drying her hair with a towel. She’s wearing a set of generic spare clothes as well. Must have been quite the escapade. “Sweet, it’s Crow Bro’s gal pal!”

“Hi?” Harley’s not afraid of Selina on a physical harm level, but there’s a gleam in her eye that Harley’s not sure what to do with. Especially when Selina perches on the back of the sofa extremely close to Harley.

“Ivy didn’t lie,” Bridgit says, reaching up to interlace the fingers of one hand with Selina’s. 

“What’d Ivy say?” Harley asks. “Would you two like to sit next to each other? Or, like, adjacent, since Jonathan says Selina has an aversion to the horizontal?”

The other girls laugh, and Selina says cheerfully, “We’ve got you where we want you.”

“Ivy talked about you. Said you weren’t a tough biker chick like your nickname sounds like, but more of a cute scooter chick.” Bridgit clarifies. 

“Oh. Um.” Harley has some chips and salsa, because there doesn’t seem to be a way out of this. They won’t be too mean to her. Jonathan would object, and all these people care what Jonathan think. (Will she ever get used to that?)

“You haven’t talked to her at all since you ran into each other,” Bridgit says.

Selina gives Harley a piercing stare. “You like her, right? Because when Ivy’s unsure of herself, all the plants in the greenhouse start drooping.”

“It’s really weird. It’s like that one rose in _Beauty and the Beast_ that’s tied to the Beast’s mojo. Your bff wouldn’t tell us which way you swing, and you don’t have to tell us -”

“Shush, Bridge, she totally has to tell us. This is Ivy’s mental health at stake here.” Catwoman’s standard arsenal includes a whip, Harley remembers. 

Harley mutes the TV for a moment. “I’m bi, and...and I think she’s cute too, but the night I met I’d just killed my boyfriend? And right now I’m adjusting to the whole working for crime bosses and also my best friend being a former serial killer and current less murderous-but-more-supervillainous criminal? So I kind of have been emotionally unavailable and psychologically intimidated?” 

“Fair enough,” Bridget says.

Selina steals several chips in one quick grab. “Are you gonna do something soon, though? We’ve advised her to play it cool.”

“Give me some time,” Harley says. She straight-up gives Selina the entire bowl and goes to her room, because she was not expecting that interrogation and she needs to regroup in a major way.

The TV is still on when Harley descends for brunch. Selina and Bridgit are curled together on the sofa, fast asleep. Harley huffs a helplessly endeared laugh, turns off the TV, and fetches some blankets to drape over them.

***

It’s actually the Kings of Gotham who shove Harley and Ivy together again, though not with matchmaking intent. Probably. Jonathan does say Nygma is oddly invested in shipping his former GCPD colleagues Jim Gordon and Leslie Thompkins despite loudly declaring on multiple occasions that “Dr. Thompkins is infinitely too good for ol’ Jimbo.”

Anyway, this is the second favor, and it’s scarier than the first. A certain Zombie Clown Stapleface is increasingly becoming a wrench in the lives of everyone except his devoted followers. Cobblepot and Nygma know better than to try to force an encounter with the Joker himself without ridiculous amounts of planning and intel. They want Ivy to use her truth perfume (whaaaaat) on member of the Joker Cult. However, people know about Ivy by now, making it difficult for her to infiltrate a savvy group, and it’s really hard to identify one of those cultists when they’re not actively cult-ing. 

And Jonathan just had to blab that Harley has written multiple psychology papers on that cult and on the Joker himself, starting back in high school when everyone still called him Jerome.

“You know their ways and you’re a completely unfamiliar face,” Jonathan tries to soothe her while he helps with her makeup. “It’s one of their big rallies. All you’ll need to do is shout slogans for a bit until you can lure someone right outside where Ivy and Selina can take over. The crowd’s relying entirely on nobody having the gumption to just walk in.”

“Uh, yeah, especially with what they did to that undercover cop they found last May. And how do I lure anyone? My knowledge is purely theoretical. Hand me the black lip liner.”

Jonathan does, then resumes the white face paint. “Grab someone’s wallet and sprint for the exit. They’ll follow. Or flirt with them, whatever seems best. I’m not trying to sexualize you.”

“There was a time I wished you would,” she says dryly, making him let out a brief laugh. 

“Do you think you’re ready to try with Ivy yet?” He sees her facial expression and doesn’t wait for an answer. “You’ve always wanted to dress up as Harlequin more often. I liked the black diamond eyes you did one Halloween.”

She did too, and decides to do it again. “This is gonna be half Commedia dell’arte and half _Rocky Horror Picture Show_ before we’re done. Do you think the cops will buy that I’m just trying to write another paper, if they show up?”

“The cops aren’t going to show up.”

“Do you think Batman will?”

Jonathan opens his mouth and then closes it again. Then thinks for a second. Then says, “I think he’ll have other priorities. Concentrate on the Juggalos from Hell. Selina will come get you if you’re not out by a specific time.” Selina was the best at getting in and out of places. In general, people known to be working for Penguin and Riddler wouldn’t be able to go inside without risking a gang war. 

“If there’s actual Insane Clown Posse music playing, I will go nope and turn around. Given the choice, rather than genuine Juggalos I would rather Jerome Valeska in the undead cackling flesh to make one of his very rare visits to his low-ranking groupies while I’m there. After noping, I'll ask Nefyn to smuggle me out of the state to avoid Penguin’s wrath. I bet he would. He’s freakishly nice for his profession. Blue or black lipstick?” She glances in the mirror at the reflection of the pretty pendant that secretly holds pepper spray. Gift from the Zsaszettes, who were also loaning her all this purely decorative jewelry and accessories to get that hard femme punk look.

“Black.” Jonathan looks at her expression again and sighs. “You have to keep this a secret, but I’ll be lurking outside. I cleared this with Zsasz, very much the irresponsible fun uncle, but if Nygma finds out he’s going to be upset and try to remove me from the scene. The idea is that if Selina can’t make it in there I will throw in a fear gas grenade to incapacitate everyone in the room. I’m immune to it and you’re not, but if you just sit tight -”

Nefyn says that Jonathan gets all his weapons terminology wrong and goes with what he thinks sounds cool. This knowledge heightens the absurdity of the situation. “Scream tight, really.”

Jonathan shrugs, because of course he’s blasé about anyone experiencing for a few minutes what he did for four months (and on and off from then on). “Yeah. But I’ll find you and give you the antidote and get you out, okay? Nobody dies from the current formula unless they already have a heart condition. It’ll be interesting to try it on a crowd that large, too. Think of all the money you're getting paid. I've heard that's what some operatives do when they get scared, or, like, people in general with frightening jobs.”

Harley would bury her face in her hands if that wouldn’t smear the makeup before they’ve had a chance to spray it with something to set it. 

***

“Got what I needed. Cat and our Bossmen’s regular driver are taking care of your Joker-lo now,” Ivy says, emerging from the back of the van. They’re in a nearby parking garage that’s been secured by Zsasz and company. 

“Here’s a blanket,” Jonathan says, muffled, draping it over Harley’s shoulders. She wishes she had a pillow, too, as sitting on cement steps isn’t exactly luxurious, but she mouths thanks. She’s glad nobody needed to rescue her, and extremely, extremely glad Jonathan didn’t need to. 

Ivy looks Jonathan up and down. “Take off the plague doctor mask, Crow Bro, you’re gonna scare the daylights out of her.”

Jonathan sounds pleased, but doesn’t remove his mask. “Do you think it’s good? Every since Reader pointed out that Scarecrow might remind my various doctors or everyone who worked on Dad’s case of me, I’ve been wondering what else could resonate with me, you know, and I think [the Sick Crow outfit](https://i.pinimg.com/236x/6d/cb/2b/6dcb2bf025748efc9634fb7df6dd2469--black-plague-doctor-plague-doctor-mask.jpg) is a good additional option for public appearances. Also the goggles lenses are taken from prescription swim goggles.”

Ivy pats his plague beak. “I’m happy for you. Go away. Make out with dagger dude.”

“Don’t worry, I’m okay,” Harley says, and Jonathan nods and stalks off in what would be a spooky manner if you didn’t know there was such a dork in there who hardly kills anyone anymore, honest.

Sitting one step below and angling her body sideways, Ivy gives Harley a longer appraising look. She clearly likes green as much as Nygma does, but from the two sightings so far, it seems that while working she goes for rich, deep, foresty shades rather than her employer’s Wizard of Oz’s migraines personified. “I’m impressed you did that.”

“Are you? You’re all pretty intense,” Harley says. She bets Selina can kill people with her thighs. 

“Don’t go all humble on me. You’d never done anything like it before, you don’t have any special abilities that I know of other than, like, knowing psychology and being cute and smart, and none of the rest of us could do it. So I’m impressed.” Ivy waves at the nondescript van as it drives away. “How do you feel?”

Harley processes the compliments and it only adds to how she’s feeling. “Adrenaline high. I thought I’d be scared, but the moment I crossed the threshold and I realized I was blending in, it was like getting into step of a dance you know better than you thought you did? I guess?”

“I get what you mean. Would you like -”

Exactly at the same time, Harley says, “I was thinking maybe -”

Ivy raises her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“You go first.”

“No, you.”

“I was gonna tell you that the Gotham U. is doing a student production of _Little Shop of Horrors_ , starting next week. There’ll be a bunch of shows. You wanna go? With me?” This scares Harley more than being surrounded by people who worship an indiscriminately homicidal clown. “What were you gonna say?”

Ivy grins. “Is that the one with the giant plant that eats people? I’ve gotten jokes about it.”

“Yes.”

“Ooh. Well, I was gonna say that if you wanna let Jonathan go home or whatever on his own, I could drive you to your place. And maybe we could, like, go to a drive-thru on the way there because I want to treat you to a ice cream cone to celebrate your first nighttime adventure.”

Harley tucks the blanket tighter around her body like when she was little and she could only express severe, celestial delight by hugging herself tightly and vibrating. “Both? Wanna do both? Can you tell me about how you found out you were so good with plants? And what plants you have? And their names and what they do?”

“Yes, if you really want to hear all that, but remember you asked for it.” Ivy stands and takes Harley by the hand, and Harley follows. Turns out Ivy’s car has one of those solar-powered toy plants on the dashboard that wiggles its leaves in the sun, though there’s no sun to wigglefy it at this hour. After they strap in, she wordlessly offers Harley a bottle of water. Harley sips on it as Ivy starts the car and gets them onto the road. 

It’s not quite Thanksgiving yet, but when Ivy turns the radio on there’s Christmas music. It’s mellow choir Christmas music, which is tolerable, though. 

Besides, Harley can’t help but blush and smile when “The Holly and the Ivy” comes on.

Ivy notices and turns it up. She doesn’t have a great singing voice, which is good because Harley doesn’t either. _“Of all the trees that are in the wood, the Harley bears the crown…”_

“Those aren’t the lyrics,” Harley says, blushing and smiling even more.

God, Ivy's eyes are bright. “They are now. ”


	4. If You Would Stem the Tide (1/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan has a multi-day relapse. Nefyn has difficulty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains non-graphic references to past child abuse and other childhood trauma.
> 
> On a happier note, it also has non-sexual submission with a supportive and affectionate ending.

Nefyn arrived home late at night impressively tidy, all things considered. Knifepoint must have been getting known for making hits look like random alley stabbings, because this was his sixth one on commission so far. It was a nice bonus when he was allowed to keep their wallets for realism. This guy had owned far more credit cards than necessary. 

Then he saw Edward Nygma’s car parked in front of the house, and Thistle was cleaning the upholstery. She saw Nefyn and emerged. “Hey, you might want to center yourself before going in there.”

Nefyn narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean? Whose blood is that?”

“Deep breaths.”

“Thistle…”

“Jonathan took a bullet for Mr. Nygma. Not a major artery, so he bled slow enough that Kali said he’d survive the trip here if they didn’t want to risk the questions at the hospital, but at the cost of needing a transfusion from delaying full medical attention and bleeding longer. Jonathan chose to pay the price."

Nefyn didn’t have time for this and stormed into the house, kicked off his shoes and threw off his jacket, and burst into the medbay. 

Kali was almost done stitching up the wound in a shirtless Jonathan’s shoulder. Nygma was in scrubs - while not a real surgeon, he’d famously saved his husband’s life back in the day with amateur surgery - but not doing anything at the moment. Jonathan was, amazingly, conscious. Unusual brain and pain perception.

“We gave him some of my blood, only fair,” Nygma said. Kali maintained a domestic blood bank and everyone who she treated had to donate except for experimentation victims Jonathan and Thistle. 

Kali finished up. She handed the instruments to Nygma even though she could have dealt with them herself, presumably to keep him from aimlessly hovering. “A high dose of local anesthetic worked fine. Edward and I have a concern, though…”

“I am very concerned,” Jonathan interjected, voice faint but words clear. “You know how my blood is the active ingredient in the antidote to the fear serum and fear gas?”

Nefyn nodded.

“You know how that’s because my blood mutated in order to fight the effects of the fear inoculation overdose?”

Nefyn nodded.

“What happens when a lot of my blood is not currently my blood?”

Nefyn’s eyes widened.

“Are you seeing it?” Nygma asked.

Jonathan gestured at a corner of the room. “Advancing. Tell Yoona and Candy to hurry with the change of clothes. And restraints. It takes several days for donated blood to be even substantially assimilated.”

“We’re going to take care of you no matter what happens." Kali handed Jonathan his bedtime medication and a glass of water, which Jonathan quickly swallowed down.

Jonathan looked scared, and that was like seeing Victor look contrite. Deeply strange and disturbing. Yoona and Candy showed up with the requested items.

“I can promise that those leather cuffs are very cushy inside,” Nefyn said, hoping to relieve Jonathan’s tension for a second.

“I bet they are,” Jonathan drawled, with a touch of humor to it. “I’m just gonna get changed right here. I don’t have time for modesty and don’t fancy spending days in the sad remains of a suit.”

It turned out that Jonathan didn’t have time to both get changed into borrowed pajamas and lie down again. He had time to change, take one step, freeze, and then fall over and start screaming and thrashing.

Nygma gestured for everyone to stand back. “Give him a moment. If it’s not a total relapse but just one of the ‘seizures’ like he used to have, it’s better to let it run its course.”

Then Jonathan shouted, _“I don’t wanna see don’t wanna see don’t wanna SEEEEEEEE!”_ and reached for his own eyes, fingernails at the ready to scratch them out. He’d never mentioned this part. Maybe the doctors never told him, wanting to spare his feelings. Maybe the situation right now was sufficiently different from the original one. It’d make sense for not all the symptoms to be the same. 

Nefyn immediately dropped to the floor and held down his wrists. Thankfully Nefyn was much stronger than him. “No, blue jay, don’t, don’t hurt yourself, c’mon, you’re safe, I’m here, Nygma’s here, Kali’s here…”

Jonathan just sobbed and shrieked with no awareness of being surrounded by friendship and love. And people wondered how someone as naturally pleasant as Nefyn could believe there was no justice, no cosmic absolute _right_.

Candy, being the most physically strong of the Zsaszettes, helped Nefyn get Jonathan onto the bed without injuring him or letting him injure himself. Nygma and Yoona worked to get him restrained by both wrists and ankles. Nygma got kicked in the stomach for his pains and Leonara took over. The screaming had probably attracted her attention. It had probably woken up or startled anyone else in or near the house. If there was a new prisoner in their underground conditioning chamber - unlikely, but conceivable - it would at least serve as additional psychological warfare. It might well have been audible to Dr. Spencer Reid just down the road. 

When Jonathan was safely shackled, Kali shooed out everyone but Nefyn, telling Nygma to go home and get some rest. “You were a great assistant. You may come back tomorrow. I’m _your_ de facto physician as well.” 

Nygma said wearily, "I took him to dinner to celebrate his med school acceptance. It's a restaurant we control, so I thought it'd be safe to be seen together for once. But a waiter turned traitor. The bullet would have hit me in the chest. The _chest_ , Kali. I...I'll go stay with Spencer, to be nearby.”

“Great idea. He will live, it’ll just be unpleasant for awhile. He’s been through this before. Give your scrubs to one of the other ladies when you’ve changed.” She lightly placed her hand on his forearm. He left without another word. 

When he was gone, Nefyn asked, “Did he even need scrubs? You weren’t wearing any, just gloves.”

“Autism and soothing rituals,” Kali said. She looked at Jonathan, still screaming, and rubbed her face with her hands. “I know Jonathan isn’t particularly prone to embarrassment, but I still figure he might appreciate only you being around for this.”

“What? What do you need?”

“He’s soiled himself. Help me clean him up.”

Nefyn followed her instructions. This was significantly less gross than corpse disposal lessons during his apprenticeship. The least he could do for Jonathan was to keep his body as comfortable as possible when they couldn’t do much for his state of mind. They had to cut off the pants - no big loss - and wouldn’t be able to put on another pair without undoing the restraints. His shirt was also stained from popping his new stitches. Kali redid the stitches and the two of them got him into a hospital gown for a bit of warmth and dignity. They also put him on a saline drip to keep him hydrated. Nutrition issues could wait. Jonathan didn’t register the pain of the needle. 

“You go get some rest yourself," Nefyn said when that was all finished. “I’ll get someone to watch him while I disarm and change and grab a bite to eat. Will you forgive me for eating in here?”

Kali pulled him into a hug. “Do whatever you need to do, _shona._ ” 

“What does that mean?” Nefyn asked, holding tight. 

“ _Gold_. It’s something a mother might call her child.” She held on a little longer. She had a softness to her frame, nice to be held against, that the rest of them didn’t now that she wasn’t running out into battlefields any longer. Not literal ones, anyway. She told him once that the reason she wore her hair in a long braid that she twisted into a knot rather than just cutting it short was that in the military she couldn’t have hair that long. It reminded her she wasn’t there anymore.

Leonara kept an eye on Jonathan while Nefyn was getting ready. Thistle brought Nefyn a better chair to sit in, one with an ergonomic back and some neck support. He thanked her and choked down half a sandwich. He needed to have all this strength. Jonathan had goosebumps, so Nefyn put a blanket on him and put it back every time it got dislodged. 

About an hour and a half after this started, Jonathan quieted a bit. As in volume, not as in amount of vocalizing. In some ways this was worse for Nefyn, though it was probably a relief to everyone else. Jonathan was more methodically trying to escape rather than aimlessly flailing, and he managed words like “no, no, no, no” and “please” and “go away”. Sometimes he went slack, tired, and started crying softly instead. Like a child who couldn’t stop crying but was afraid of what would happen if they were heard.

Nefyn remembered many nights crying into his pillow as a kid. His aunt and uncle never took kindly to him making a peep after lights-out regardless of circumstances. Nefyn had friends at school, but at night he was alone. 

“You’re not alone, blue jay, okay?” Nefyn cautiously reached to brush some hair out of Jonathan’s eyes.

Jonathan grabbed his hand and clung to it. Nefyn blinked. Jonathan didn’t tend to invite touch except right before, during, and immediately after sex. Nefyn had no problem with this, though. He scooted the chair closer and propped his arm up for the long haul.

This didn’t magically make Jonathan calm. He kept up the weeping and cringing and heartbreaking babbling. But he didn’t seem to want to let go, so Nefyn stayed. He couldn’t focus well enough to read a book, so he put on some music both of them liked. 

The first song hit almost too close to home. _Anan Water, you loom so deep and wide. I would cross over if you would stem the tide, or build a boat that I might ford the other side, to reach the farther shore where my true love lies in wait for me, in wait for me, in wait for me…_

“I know the ‘l’ word is hard for you,” Nefyn said. Jonathan hadn’t had his seizures for a few years now, but he’d told Nefyn that sometimes he dissociated enough to observe and remember what was going on during them. He would talk with that in mind. 

During the next bout of screaming, Jonathan yanked his hand away. He was quieter simply because his throat was too raw otherwise. Nefyn wished there was something he could kill to make it better. He played music and replaced the blanket when he could, and held hands when he could.

***

Time passed. Nefyn only left his post twice, to dart to the nearest bathroom. There wasn’t a window in the medbay and he wasn’t in the mood to be checking. People occasionally tried to urge him to take a break. He rebuffed them.

Then Nygma came back, in slacks and a button-up rather than a suit, plus no tie. Nefyn idly wondered if he was borrowing his cousin’s clothes or whether he simply wasn’t in the mood to be his usual eclectically dapper self. He stared at Nefyn. “Have you been here since I left?”

“Pretty much. I’ve been playing music to him, and, and when he was relatively quiet I told him a few funny stories. In case he could hear. Sometimes he just cries like he’s doing now instead of screaming, but he switches back eventually.”

 _“Stop, stop, please stop,”_ Jonathan was pleading in a dry, cracked voice. Nygma clenched his fists and breathed heavily. Nefyn totally understood.

“Do you want to sit in this chair? I could use a bit of standing time.”

Nygma said, “Actually, I’d like to be alone with him. I realize it’s not entirely rational, but…”

“That’s fine. I’ll wait outside.” Nefyn exited and went to the living room couch, where he could still see the door.

Kali was waiting for him there. She looked like she meant business. “Nefyn, you need to eat something more substantial, shower, and get some sleep. Jonathan has others to watch over him.”

“I’ll be fine for a bit,” Nefyn said absently.

Thistle, walking past with an armful of C-4, said, “You definitely need a shower, dude.”

Instead of the many well-reasoned arguments in his head, Nefyn said, “I’m not the puppy anymore. I do what I want.”

“Sure, you’re not the puppy anymore, but whose name is it on the doormat?” Victor strode into view, his magisterial authority undermined a little by the fact that he was eating the last of his chocolate pudding. He was dressed all in black, meaning he’d gotten home and made straight for food instead of upstairs to change. 

“Every single time you’ve been awake this long, you started getting flashbacks,” Kali said firmly. 

“Right, and we’re worried about me have a bit of a memory resurgence when that’s peanuts compared to -”

Kali’s firmness turned to sternness. “This is exactly the sort of thing that might trigger you. Victor and I know.” 

“You gonna stop being self-destructive, cub?” Victor asked, putting the pudding cup and spoon on the dining table. Everyone stopped calling Thistle “puppy” when she confided in them that the name she’d chosen for herself was very important in moving forward from Indian Hill's dehumanization, but everyone but Thistle and Kali now called Nefyn other kinds of baby animal.

“Says the man whose habit of cutting himself is known throughout the city. I’m sorry to be rude, but come on.” Nefyn clenched his jaw as he heard Jonathan start screaming again. 

Victor narrowing his eyes was always interesting to see, what with him not having eyelashes (yes, he got dust in his eyes sometimes), though aggravating in this context. “I asked you a question.”

“Make me,” Nefyn said. It was part defiance and part unplanned plea. Because if someone made you do something, what happened afterwards wasn’t your fault.

“If that’s how you wanna play it, okay.” Victor promptly lifted a startled Nefyn over his shoulder and carried him upstairs. Jesús was passing by with an enormous tub of whey protein powder and whistled.

“It’s not like that,” Nefyn said, but Jesús had moved on.

Victor put him down when they reached the bathroom of the master suite. Much like the bedroom, it was ostensibly Victor’s, but stuff belonging to other members of the household was strewn all over the place. Nefyn leaned back against the sink, gripping it for balance. He felt lightheaded, a voice from a long time ago on the edge of his memory. _"Just have some rest, Nefyn, we’ll call you."_

Then there was a finger tipping up his chin and a hand on the back of his neck. Very few people would ever receive this gesture from Victor Zsasz and not hope he was just planning for a quick kill. Victor asked, “Color for subbing?”

“Green.”

“Color for sex?”

“Red.”

“Color for kissing and manhandling?”

“Green.”

“Other considerations?”

“I’ll sleep better if you tie me up.” 

Victor stepped back, gaze impassive. “Mm. Strip. Fold and pile your clothes neatly.” Victor undressed as well, but just dropped his clothes to the floor. Nefyn could see the scab of a new tally mark on his right bicep. The entire left arm had gotten too crowded to be aesthetically pleasing to add any more. 

This shower was huge. They’d managed a foursome in there once. They kept a waterproof stool in the corner for if anyone was hurt, tired, or needed a better angle for something. They kept two bath mats in there to prevent slipping. It was enclosed with glass, but for the hell of it there was also a curtain covered in a design of punk rubber duckies with spiky leather jackets and mohawks.

“In you go.”

Trusting Victor to understand what Nefyn was asking for, he shook his head. _Make me. Punish me._

The stinging slap to the face meant he’d conveyed the message. Victor shoved him into the shower so hard it was only his training that allowed him to land on all fours without bruises. “It doesn’t matter what’s going on in your head, when I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it.”

“Yes, sir,” Nefyn mumbled.

Victor nudged Nefyn’s leg with a bare foot. “What was that?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Better. Now turn on the water. You know what temperature I like.”

“Yes, sir.” He got up and adjusted it to near-scalding, which was hotter than he liked when he was on his own but had come to associate with Victor’s company. The moment he stepped under the shower, Victor approached from behind and wrapped an arm tightly around his waist. 

“You’ve got matted gunk in your hair,” Victor said, tapping the spot with his free hand. “Did you come home from a job and not shower?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, but...:”

“Ap pap pap. I expect better from someone of mine.” He popped open a tube of cinnamon-scented body wash-shampoo-combination and liberally drizzled it over Nefyn like it was a condiment and Victor was planning to eat him. “Face the wall and do the rest on your own. Don’t look at me.”

“Yes, sir.” At first Nefyn was able to slip into that relieving blankness of letting go and being good, but when he was almost done washing his hair he heard an especially loud scream from downstairs. And slumped against the wall. He couldn’t help Jonathan, not really. Jonathan was going to suffer and suffer until it ran its course, and the only things that would really help him were really Kali’s thing. Nefyn had left his side and _you know what that means, you know what happens when you do that, if you do that, when you did that._

Then Victor put his hands on Nefyn’s shoulders and turned him around, pressing him flat against the wall. Neither of them were clothed but only Nefyn was naked, his heart pounding and raw. Victor kissed him insistently. Thoroughly. He broke off to say, “You’re here. You’re now. He might be yours but you are _mine_.”

“Yes, sir,” Nefyn said, dizzy.

“Rinse and dry off. Take your folded clothes and place them somewhere tidy in the bedroom. Don’t put them on. Fetch whatever bondage you want from the toy chest. Then kneel by the bed. Eyes closed.” He pointed at the semi he’d developed at some point, though Nefyn had not. “I gotta turn this shower to cold for a moment after you leave, know what I’m saying?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Nefyn said, reaching for it.

Victor smacked his hand away. “I expect you to do what I say, but there are things I will never expect you to do. You said red on sex. Unless you’ve changed your mind for reasons other than a dumb sense of obligation or something, red is red.” He kissed him again, then smirked and flicked one his nipples. Victor couldn’t play without being playful from time to time, whether domming Nefyn, subbing for Yoona, or doing either of those or rough vanilla (aka Rocky Road) with Leonara. Serious was for the sub-basement or for Gotham’s far too many shadowy warehouses. If he made wisecracks _there_ , they were deadly, torturously serious underneath. 

Nefyn followed the orders. He selected a short length of smooth black cotton rope and a soft blindfold. The latter was also practical. Some light still peeked out from under the curtains. He placed both on top of the covers and knelt, letting his increasingly heavy eyelids lower. He was calmer now, inside, but there was still the past. Slipping in through the cracks.

_The lying neighbor taking him by the hand. "The doctors are going to take care of it, it’s not a big wound, come sit with me, sweetheart and let her rest..."_

Then he felt a hand stroking the cheek Victor had slapped. “Being good now?”

Nefyn nodded, eyes still closed. _Tell me I’m good now. Tell me I’m special._

“Put the blindfold on yourself and then sit on the bed for me.” Victor was the least self-consciously nude person Nefyn had ever met. If for some reason he had to fight without a stitch of clothing on, it wouldn’t bother him other than in terms of practicality.

Early in his apprenticeship but late enough that he’d lost his initial intense awe of the legendary Zsasz, Nefyn had asked him why he could cheerfully torture and murder people but had a problem with rape. Victor had said that first of all, not his kink, and he wasn’t exactly hard up for it. Most importantly, he cared for few people but some of them had experienced sexual abuse, and he didn’t want to be like someone who’d hurt his family. Nefyn had come to trust him to the point of doing breathplay, which apparently nobody else had ever done.

This wasn’t the time for anything like that, though. Nefyn blindly perched on the edge of the bed and held out his wrists. This was meant for hours of sleep and not to give Nefyn the true feeling of difficulty escaping that he sometimes wanted, so it wasn’t going to be very tight or elaborate. Victor tied Nefyn’s wrists and then extended it all the way down to his forearms, and left his side momentarily to fetch another bit of rope to bind his legs together from knees to ankles. After checking the tautness one final time, he asked, “Anything pinching? Because I plan on sleeping like a log.”

Nefyn shook his head, and let himself be arranged on his side as an enforced little spoon. Victor curled up behind him and pulled the covers over them both. He wound both an arm and leg around Nefyn and gave him a brief little squeeze. “ _And I will hit him and snuggle him and call him ‘puggle’. _” he said in a high-pitched voice.__

__“Huh?”_ _

__“Reid told me it’s what you call a baby platypus. Is that a laugh? I can feel you jiggling, you can’t fool me.”_ _

__“A little bit, sir,” Nefyn said, yawning._ _

__“Enough with the ‘sir’.”_ _

__“Okay.”_ _

__Victor reached around to boop his nose. “I was actually pretty wired and jittery, you know, so to cool down it was either this, fucking somebody, or a lot of drinking. This was quickest.”_ _

__“Glad to help.”_ _

__“You can’t go watch your Not Boyfriend be depressing until I let you. So chill.” Victor kissed a few of the cigarette burn scars on Nefyn’s back before dropping off. (It would be an understatement to say Nefyn wasn’t into wax play.) Nefyn followed._ _

__****_ _

__Nefyn slept ten hours and wasn’t allowed to see Jonathan again until he’d eaten. When Nefyn finally made it to Jonathan, there were more tubes sticking into him. Jonathan was miraculously quiet. Kali told Nefyn, “He did succumb to exhaustion at times during the original episode, his records say.”_ _

__About two hours into Nefyn’s new vigil, Reid knocked and entered, dressed in one of his usual absentminded professor corduroy-and-cardigan getups. It was always an interesting look on someone so unconsciously and arrestingly pretty. “I don’t know if anyone told you. Kali consulted with Jonathan’s psychiatrist without telling her exactly what’s going on. I’ve been studying Jonathan’s neurochemistry and biochemistry for three years now at his request. We’ve decided not to try to force-feed him his usual medications or create versions to give him intravenously. The medications help him in various valuable ways, but it’s his mutation that brought him back the first time, and we want to let him heal without undue intervention. That’s also why he hasn’t been sedated, especially since we know he requires massive quantities.”_ _

__“Did you breathe more than once while telling me all that?”_ _

__Reid gave him a small, self-deprecating smile and moved to the other side of Jonathan from Nefyn. “You know that being empathetic is sort of my gimmick. Empathetic and kind aren’t the same.”_ _

__“You certainly demonstrate that,” Nefyn agreed, though the Reader was far kinder than Penguin, Nygma, or Jonathan himself. Kinder than Ivy, Selina, and Bridgit, too. One might argue he was kinder than Batman, even though he killed when he felt he had to._ _

__“I visited Jonathan earlier and saw him screaming, and I couldn’t help empathize with Jim Gordon. I know what it’s like to rush towards the scene and get there minutes too late. I know what it’s like to try to comfort a victim with no idea how anyone could possibly be comforted after what just happened. It must have been horrific to see the actual moment Jonathan’s father did this to him, and be the first person confronted with the screams.” Reid leaned down to watch Jonathan’s unconscious face. “He’s in something resembling REM. Eyes are darting. This is a good sign, I think.”_ _

__“Yeah?”_ _

__“It means his brain is trying to, uh, trying to process the stimuli, sorting it out.”_ _

__Jonathan twitched and mumbled “no” a few times._ _

__Nefyn watched Reid’s beautiful face, idly wondering what could have been if Reid weren’t demisexual, under Nygma’s overprotection, and a brainwashing subject. Nefyn would have felt weird about the consent issues inherent in propositioning someone who was so unnaturally not like they once were. “Would you consider us friends?”_ _

__“If you do, then yes.”_ _

__“If I’m out of line, just tell me.”_ _

__Reid made eye contact then. “Of course.”_ _

__“Have you ever been tortured?”_ _

__“Yes, back when I was an agent.”_ _

__“But not by your…”_ _

__“Don’t worry about that.”_ _

__This was as deep as Nefyn was prepared to go. “That’s one of the things some of my family does but I won’t. It makes me remember.”_ _

__Reid nodded. He sat in the uncomfortable chair Thistle had provided Nefyn with an alternative for. “A lot of people who kill will deliberately make exceptions in ways that reflect their own...experiences.”_ _

__“I bet you could quote me an exact statistic.”_ _

__“I’m trying to be more colloquial.”_ _

__Nefyn huffed out a tiny laugh. “And...and I won’t take contracts on someone who has sole custody of a child. When he hired me, Victor was concerned that I might have a vendetta against the guy who was hired to take out my mom, but I don’t. That’d be like having a vendetta against the gun he shot her with or the bullet that went into her. And he spared the kid, as is considered, you know, sporting. He died in the gang war Penguin kicked off anyway. I did track down the cop who took a bribe to let it happen when the GCPD had promised us our new names and lives would be enough. Him, I blamed.”_ _

__“One was just doing his job, and one failed at his job?”_ _

__Nefyn took a sip of water, as he promised he’d do periodically. “Something like that. And the woman who ordered the hit just because my mom saw something and was trying to do the right thing. That lady died in a mundane car accident when I was eleven, anticlimactically. Sorry to dump this on you, but you’re so...and you know a lot about psychology and crime and…”_ _

__“You’re fine,” Reid said._ _

__Then Jonathan opened his eyes and gasped. He tried to sit up. His eyes widened when he saw the restraints. “What happened? Where’s Dad?”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...


	5. If You Would Stem the Tide (2/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has brief uses of shaming and homophobic language within the context of character memories.

This was not the Jonathan Nefyn knew. His face was vividly animated with distress and his croaking voice shaky. Vulnerable. _Emotive._ “My dad, what happened to my dad?”

Nefyn couldn’t form words. Thankfully Reid said in soothing tones, “You’ve been sick. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Night. We were in a field. Um. Where is he?” Jonathan swallowed nervously. Nefyn wanted to kill someone. Several someones. Not quick or clean. “Has he been arrested?”

Reid nodded. He reached into one of his pants pockets and pulled out his old FBI badge. (Why did he have it with him?) “I’m Dr. Spencer Reid, an FBI agent, Behavioral Analysis Unit. I was asked to be a consultant.”

Jonathan looked at it and then blinked, frustrated. “I can’t see very well.” Jonathan didn’t get glasses until college. Shit. Nefyn could see Jonathan’s glasses folded on a shelf, thankfully out of Jonathan’s view. 

Without hesitation, Reid spun Jonathan a story that was technically true. He pushed the badge closer until it was clear Jonathan had made out the details, then put it away again. “The police were in close pursuit but were too late to stop your father from injecting you with an accidental overdose of the fear inoculation. It’s had a variety of side effects. You’re in restraints not because you’re under arrest but because you’ve been having violent seizures, all right? Your blurry vision is minor and not something to worry about at present. You’re here in a private, secured facility rather than a regular hospital because of concerns that you may be a target by association from a number of people wanting to assign blame. The GCPD considers you more your father’s victim than his accomplice.”

Jonathan nodded slowly as he absorbed this. Scared but brave. “Can I maybe get out now?”

Reid began, “You might not be completely done seizing yet. This may be a temporary respite...”

“I’ll go get the doctor,” Nefyn offered. Once he was through the doors, he ran.

He found Kali in the upstairs TV room watching a figure skating competition with Yoona tucked against her side and her head on Yoona’s shoulder. Kali immediately muted the TV when she saw him. “What is it?”

“Jonathan’s kind of lucid, but he thinks he’s fifteen. I think….I think he’s reset to just before he got the original dose.”

“Fuck,” the couple chorused flatly.

On the way back, Nefyn filled Kali in on what Reid had told Jonathan. Yoona caught up with them en route and handed Kali her one real white doctor’s coat, which in Nefyn’s understanding mostly got used for roleplay. “To sell the idea,” she said. Kali thanked her and put it on.

When they got back, Jonathan was still nervous and wary. However, Reid was keeping him from outright panic, partially by rambling about biochemistry. Even when Jonathan had been normal, Jonathan hadn’t been. There was an empty cup with a straw on the table suggesting Reid had given him some water. Jonathan’s throat had to hurt like hell.

In her friendliest, gentlest tone, Kali said, “Hello, Jonathan, I’m Dr. Kali Lahiri and I need to check if you’re safe, okay?”

Jonathan nodded, biting his lip. Kali checked his pulse, pupil dilation, heart rate, temperature, and blood pressure. 

“I think I see something out of the corner of my eye,” Jonathan whispered. 

“What does it look like?” Kali asked.

“Outside my house there’s a field, and the field has an old scarecrow…” Jonathan turned his head a fraction and shivered.

“If you’re still seeing it, and your pupils are this unnaturally dilated and your heart racing this much, I’m not comfortable with you being loose just yet. However, I think we can undo one of these wrist cuffs. Promise not to undo the other one yourself just yet. You nearly injured yourself very badly before we restrained you.”

Then Jonathan pressed himself flat, a terrified whine escaping his tightly clenched mouth. “Too late, too late, it’s…”

Then he went into the screaming again.

“I’m going to go chop a bunch of wood,” Nefyn said in Kali’s ear. It was really Thistle’s job now, for when they wanted cozy hearth fires or outdoor bonfires, but Nefyn needed the release.

****

“Even if his amnesia’s permanent, it’s not the end of the world,” Thistle said as she picked up another armful of newly split logs to add to the pile in the shed. “Reid’s been nice enough start investigating who I might have originally been when he’s got the time, though. Hasn’t found anything yet but I appreciate it.”

Nefyn grunted and lifted the axe again.

****

Reid and Nygma were both with Jonathan when Nefyn returned. Candy grabbed him by the shirt collar and took him to the second upstairs bathroom, which had an enormous bathtub that happened to have a showerhead attached. The curtain had a design of devil rubber duckies, red with horns and tails. She filled up the tub, tenderly washed him, and then nudged him into sucking her off. Distantly, Nefyn was happy that she was this at ease with her body today. For various reasons, Candy didn’t want to have transition surgery even in some hypothetical magical land where it would be simple to get. She stuck to hormone treatments and electrolysis hair removal. That said, there were stretches when she was closed-off and irritable and didn’t want to exist below the belt. 

“Such a lamb,” she said when he finished. She pulled him up and held him close against her chest.

“I think your tits have got Yoona’s beat by now,” Nefyn said, with a mostly-relaxed smile. He certainly felt better inside his head. His body had responded to the situation, but he had mixed feelings about pursuing it. Candy always made him really earn reciprocation anyway.

Candy giggled. “Next time we play with you together, we’ll let you judge.” Nefyn never played with Yoona one-on-one, finding her style too intense without someone to be Nice Dom(me) to her Mean Domme.

***

“To answer your question, there is no right or wrong coping mechanism that doesn’t involve neglecting or harming yourself,” Kali said as she passed Nefyn the salad. “There’d be nothing wrong with you taking up one of your partners on an offer for full-on sex if that would help you get through this difficult time.”

Unless they had a guest, everyone at Casa del Zsasz treated discussion of everyone’s sexual activities exactly the same way as discussion of any other activities. Jesús was gray-ace, though he’d experimented with three of the others, and mostly just raised his eyebrows or chuckled at these matters. Right now he seemed focused on the new microbrew he’d opened for himself. 

“Jonathan’d be cool with it,” Victor said, sanguine, with his mouth half-full of potato. 

Leonara rolled her eyes and patted Nefyn’s thigh under the table. “If you wanna come to my room later, I’m just gonna be catching up on the latest issue of _Vogue_ and other shit I can quit.”

Nefyn put his hand on top of hers for a moment in acknowledgment. “Who’s with him now?”

Victor gestured with his fork. “Nygma went to go deal with the shooter and probably have Penguin do whatever a person does to make Nygma chill out. Reid’s there gathering data and also talking endlessly about stuff he thinks Jonathan might find interesting if the kid can hear.”

“Okay.” Reid was a good choice for if Jonathan woke up again in the same frame of mind he did last time.

After a silence, Thistle piped up, “I found some wild berries that are delicious, but seeing as Reid thinks I probably died from foraging for mushrooms, Kali’s only letting me eat them. I’m sorry.” She’d taken her gloves off to more easily handle corn on the cob, and you could see all the regrown green prickles since last time she’d shaved the backs of her hands. Thankfully they left her palms and the fronts of her fingers alone.

Months of searching for the new house apprentice had passed before Nefyn followed a trail of contacts and rumors that led him to a homeless “monster” from Indian Hill eating spoiled food out of a dumpster with no ill effects. He’d startled her and she’d come impressively close to taking him down before he explained himself. It reminded Nefyn of how his predecessor had recruited him for the same position, except he'd been fleeing from some gang members whose territory he’d trespassed on. These days Thistle had access to good food but often chose to eat anything that had gone bad to avoid waste. Nefyn wondered if that thistle-milk-containing anti-poison metabolism-boosting elixir was preserved somewhere, or at least the written formula. 

He listened to anecdotes about everyone’s recent assignments. A brief argument over whether a character’s death in a show was warranted. An offer to share a bunch of coupons that had come in a flyer. Suggestions for the next movie night. An impromptu microbrew review. Inquires into who the hell used the last of the expensive hollow-point bullets in the box marked PAINLESS DEATH FOR WORTHY OPPONENTS. Musings on whether “maize” would be a better word for Americans to habitually use for corn. 

Echo of other family dinners, unbidden, ringing through his mind. _“Your mother was a dirty slut who had no idea who your father was. She got exactly what she deserved. Sit up straight and stop fussing or you’re done eating for tonight.”_

Then Reid came running. “He asked to see you.”

“I’ll be right there,” Kali said, pushing out her chair.

“No, he asked to see Nefyn. I’m afraid I made an error and you’re the one person who can help.”

****

Mentally-fifteen Jonathan had resurfaced with memories of the previous occasion. Unfortunately, when Reid had taken his phone out to answer a text from Nygma, Jonathan had spotted that the phone was far too advanced for his supposed present day.

Jonathan was clenching his fists yet shivering at the same time. The blanket was only covering him the barest amount. “Agent Reid said I haven’t been in a coma all this time. He said I was in a coma - seizures while hallucinating, whatever - for only four months, and I came out of it. And that years later I’ve just had an episode so bad that I have amnesia.”

“Likely temporary amnesia, given what I know about you,” Reid said, adjusting the blanket. “Nefyn’s got proof.”

Nefyn opened the Jonathan-specific photo album on his phone and showed him. “Look. Some of these are of just you, some with you and your best friend, and some with you and me.” It occurred to him that Harley might not have been kept in the loop - but Ivy had been involved in the interrogation of the shooter, and Ivy would surely have said something to Harley about it. Casa del Zsasz was a restricted location, unfortunately.

“I wear glasses,” Jonathan breathed. “Oh my god, I graduated college.”

“You did. Magna cum laude. You complained that it wasn’t summa.”

“What am I doing now?”

“You’re going to medical school to eventually become a psychiatrist.”

This made Jonathan smile slightly before his face went all tight and disturbed again. “Like I’ve wanted. At least that didn’t fall apart. Is Dad in jail, or dead?”

Nefyn looked to Reid to see if he should sugarcoat it. Reid made a “go on” gesture. “Dead. Inoculation complications. You went to live with your grandma for awhile. She died falling down the stairs, and you inherited her house too. You sold your childhood one after experimenting with renting it out.” Okay, Nefyn was leaving some stuff out, but he couldn’t upset this version of Jonathan more than he had to. He couldn’t bear to.

He finally noticed Jonathan’s eyes were reddening. Jonathan sniffled. “What...what if I don’t get it back? What if I have to start all over?”

“Then you’ll have people helping you,” Nefyn said fiercely, taking Jonathan’s left hand before he had time to think.

Jonathan started crying again, but this was aware, overwhelmed crying, another flavor of unbearable. Reid propped up the bed a little so Jonathan could breathe easier and look them in the eye. They freed Jonathan’s right hand and gave him a tissue so he could wipe his own nose. “I’m not sure I see the point.”

“Don’t say that, blue jay. There’s a point. There’s so much of a point.” 

“Those pictures could be fake,” Jonathan said reluctantly. Almost timidly. 

Nefyn closed his eyes for a moment to come up with a plan. “Could you go get Dr. Kali, Agent? I know she’s with someone else, but Jonathan’s okay with being alone with me for maybe ten minutes?”

Reid gave the smallest nod of understanding Nefyn’s subtext. “Would you like me to fetch you something, Jonathan?”

“I’m not hungry. Kinda nauseous. Could, like, go for some juice or Gatorade or something if that’s allowed,” Jonathan said, biting his lip. This was so painfully a vulnerable teenager in dry, sardonic, cool and calculating, secretly adorkable Jonathan Crane’s body.

“I’ll ask her,” Reid promised.

Nefyn kept holding Jonathan’s left hand in the absence of any protest. “Your mother made costumes for local theaters and taught you how to make masks. You have a thing for every possible variety of hot chocolate. You love Miyazaki films and once had a crush on Princess Mononoke herself. You studied Japanese to fulfill gen ed requirements, but only ever use it to read cheap bootleg manga, so your speaking skills are weak as shit.”

“Last one’s not me yet, but plausible,” Jonathan croaked. He coughed and reached for the water in a kids’ sippy cup Reid had left near him. Jonathan had spilled on himself earlier when provided with a regular cup with a straw. 

Nefyn ached with equal sadness and fondness. “You like to drink milk when you eat popcorn so they will take up an equal amount of volume in your mouth. At this point in your maturity you are starting to think you might like boys as well as girls but aren’t sure. You’re a decent cook, which you say is an art, and an excellent baker, which you say is a science. Your favorite band is the Decemberists, and your favorite of their albums is _Picaresque_ , because you love _The Crane Wife_ but for obvious reasons it hurts as well. When your mother died you read every book the library had that contained information about firefighting and death by smoke inhalation to reassure yourself that she would have succumbed with minimal suffering.” 

“Okay, okay, stop, I believe you know me.” Jonathan looked at their joined hands. “You’re my boyfriend, I gather?”

Nefyn cleared his throat. “Um. Sort of. We sleep with other people as well, but I’m the only one you come back to. We’re not super touchy-feely or lovey-dovey because your, um, experiences, like, uh, make you not super into emotional intimacy and I respect that.”

Jonathan shifted until their fingers were interwoven. “You’re pretty hot and you obviously love me a lot. So that’s cool I guess…”

“I really do love you a lot.”

“You called me ‘blue jay’ before.”

“Really?” Nefyn hadn’t meant to. “I’m the only one who calls you that. It’s a bird, specifically a corvid - you like feeding the crows in the woods near where you live. It chatters a lot. You talk a lot with it’s you and me hanging out and not...you know.”

“It’s okay to say ‘fucking’ to someone who’s fifteen in the head,” Jonathan said, with something disarmingly close to an actual sneer.

Nefyn snorted despite himself. “Okay. Also because of what you’ve been through, even though you’re very resilient and pretty content it can be hard to make you outright be happy, so you’re Blue Jonathan. Blue J. Get it? And I’m red-green colorblind, and my world is entirely black, white, shades of brown or yellow-y beige, or blue. You may notice I’m wearing all blue, different shades. It’s...um...blue things are the most...most beautiful things. To me.” 

Jonathan pondered this for a long while before he traced two of Nefyn’s knuckles with his thumb. “I’m sorry my adult self is apparently, like, such a cold fish.”

“He cares in his own way, and it means a lot. I can spread my own sappiness out with other people.”

Jonathan brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Okay.” 

After a silence, Nefyn took refuge in the practical. “Do you need to pee or anything? We can try to supervise -”

“No. I assume I haven’t drunk much for a while and one of these tubes is for hydration.” Jonathan stared at the door for a moment. “If I’ve been living a successful, legit life for the past six or seven years or whatever, why does an FBI agent have an interest in - oh my god oh my god there it is there it is again, the…”

“Scarecrow?” Nefyn asked, heart in his throat.

Jonathan’s pupils had already been dilated, but now they were so wide there was only the thinnest ring of blue. “Thank you for caring.”

And screamed.

****

Leonara obligingly wore Nefyn out that night, marking him up wonderfully with fingernails and teeth. He hadn’t been up for any implements or ritual. 

He ended up staying with her for the night, not wanting to go back to his own room in the attic. A wall constructed about ten years ago separated his room from the space Jesús rented. When their house was converted from a barn decades ago, it had been designed as a four bed, two-and-a-half bath, though the originally-half-bath downstairs now had a utilitarian shower stall. The apprentice was traditionally granted a walk-in closet on the first floor. During his apprenticeship, Nefyn had spent a lot of time in other people’s beds and simply remained there until morning. Meanwhile Thistle needed sleep about one night out of three and had few personal possessions to store in there. 

Leonara had once shared her room with another Zsaszette before Butch Gilzean shot Jane dead. Despite all this time, half it it was noticeably more empty than the other half except for a freestanding lamp and a mini TV on the top of a narrow bookcase. There was a little picture of Jane hanging on the far wall from Leonara’s bed. Leonara was straight unless one counted sharing a man or two with another woman or two in a scene, but Jane had been very dear to her. 

It wasn’t as secure and restful as co-sleeping with Victor. (Nefyn realized a lot of people would find that sentence baffling or hilarious.) Leonara didn’t like cuddling except during afterglow, and sometimes she had slurred-speech twitchy nightmares, mostly about her ex-boyfriend before she took him out. And his friends. On the other hand, she had a special fancy ergonomic mattress that cost more than Victor’s immense landscape of a bed. She invested in silk sheets. It was like being cradled by a cloud that loved you and knew what was best for you. 

She also had these nice paper lanterns that cast a soft, dim glow in the corner if you happened to, say, have new background fears of a certain Scarecrow coming for you too. What if it would have eyes that looked like the tips of lit cigarettes? What if it would have a voice that sounded like Nefyn’s first two kills speaking in unison?

_“Get out of this house, you perverted little faggot.” Barely concealed joy in their faces under the rage. They’d finally found a scrap of an excuse._

Nefyn pulled the slippery soft sheets up to his neck and tugged more of the comforter away from Leonara’s leonine lump. Nobody in this house was without ghosts, whether or not they talked about them.

****

Jonathan was passed out exhausted again. Someone had flattened the bed to help him lie more comfortably. For the second time, Nefyn had cycled through all the songs both of them liked and had now circled around again to the same album.

_But I will cross if mine own horse is pulled from me, though my mother cries that if I try I sure will drowned be, will drowned be, will drowned be..._

“There’s something I don’t tell a lot of people,” Nefyn said. “Even people, like you, who know my mother was shot in front of me in our GCPD-supplied apartment when I was seven. I let people think she died instantly. She lived for hours after. But they wouldn’t let me sit by her side. They told me she was going to get better. If I weren’t surrounded with people I trust with my life, I would never budge from this spot.”

If this were a soap opera, Jonathan would wake right now as himself. He didn’t. Worth a shot, at least.

He pressed for the song to be on loop. In hospital rooms, no one can hear you be emo. 

***

Four hours, thirty-two minutes later, Jonathan opened his eyes. He turned his head to look at Nefyn. “How long’s it been since Kali took the bullet out?”

Nefyn couldn’t speak.

Jonathan did his best to wave. “Hello?”

“About three days. I haven’t been sleeping regular hours. Um. Time is weird.” Nefyn turn off the music.

“Time is an illusion, lunchtime doubly so. I could use a sandwich. And a bathroom. Get me out.”

Nefyn held up a slightly shaky hand. “What’s my codename in your phone?”

“Dec.” This was because "Nefyn" was the Welsh spelling of an Irish name meaning "little saint", and "Declan" was the Anglicized spelling of an Irish name with a similar meaning. It's wasn't riddle so much as a mnemonic device for Jonanathan if his bedtime medications were making him drowsy and easily confused. The codename used to be "Needlepoint", but as Knifepoint was becoming better known Jonathan decided to switch to something less obvious.

“What’s my favorite kind of cookie?”

“Snickerdoodle, largely because of the name.”

“What’s something I irrationally dislike?”

“Using ampersands instead of spelling out the word ‘and’.” Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “Are you checking if I have all my memories, or are you confirming I’m not Clayface pulling an elaborate and masochistic ruse?”

Nefyn started laughing. “That would be the absolute dumbest plan ever, even for him. I’ll text Kali to come over because I am not letting you out of my sight.”

“Where’d she go?”

“She’s enabling Yoona’s habit of burying family-recipe kimchi in clay pots all over our property in case of Tetch virus outbreak, Joker-nanigans, Batman having nothing else to do and turning on us, nobody feeling like going to the grocery store that week, or whatever catastrophe.” 

“I love your family,” Jonathan said. “And you.”

Nefyn’s fingers froze for a second.

Jonathan half smiled. “Finish your text. I can practice saying it more often. Maybe not in front of other people, though, I have an image to uphold. And I am never taking bullets for anybody again, sorry Mr. Riddler.”

Nefyn pressed SEND, tucked his phone away, and leaned over to kiss Jonathan’s forehead. “Nah, you’d take one for….”

“Don’t presume,” Jonathan said, tone dry as his voice. 

Nefyn gave him some water. “...Harley, I bet.” 

“Shut your offensive yet pretty mouth.” Jonathan cleared his throat and made a significant glance at Nefyn’s smartphone. “I remember bits and pieces. You played ‘Annan Water’ a billion times, making it unusable to me for the next decade or so.”

“Sorry.” Nefyn paused. “Wait, no, I’m not sorry. Not sorry at all.”

Jonathan smiled fully. “ _So calm your waves, and slow the churn, and you may have my precious bones on my return._ That romantic enough to hold you for a bit?”

Nefyn heard Kali at the door and got to his feet. He would never push Jonathan to be who he might have been, what that younger mindset of him could have grown up to be. But they all had ghosts, and there were certain ways to weaken them. “For a bit, blue jay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Annan Water performed live.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=29uonE-REMw%22)


	6. Render Me a Wreck (1/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A parallel narrative to "If You Would Stem the Tide", from Ed's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a fair amount of Ed-style hallucinations in here.

Almost all of Ed’s time with Jonathan was spent in one of their homes or on the surrounding property, or en route in Ed’s car. There’d been a handful of occasions where they’d gone out on the town together, as it were, but Jonathan was always masked for those. 

They’d mutually agreed in their first few months of association that Jonathan Crane should not be seen in public with Edward Nygma. However, Jonathan, with his new degrees in psychology and biochemistry, had just been notified of his acceptance to medical school. Ed had treated Ivy to celebratory ice cream a number of times for excellent but lesser victories. Jonathan might not care about such imbalances, but they rankled with Ed’s sense of equitable mentoring. 

Ed had suggested a small but upscale restaurant he and Oswald owned and periodically used for business meetings. The private dining room upstairs been host to the kind of business meetings where it was not guaranteed all the guests would be leaving again, depending on the outcome of the discussion. Though at least they would die having had some good food as a parting gift.

Jonathan still defaulted to his drab jeans and tees and hoodies whenever possible, but he’d gotten better at dressing himself smartly over the years. Ed suspected that Nefyn had taught him how to properly iron suit trousers, a skill Jonathan previously had not possessed. Unless Nefyn just ironed Jonathan’s clothes for him whenever he happened to stop by, which would not be a huge surprise.

“Did you get that benzodiazepine molecule necktie from the person I think you did?” Ed asked as he took his seat. He was prepared to be seen with Jonathan in this particular secured location this evening, but he was not prepared to let slip that Jonathan knew the Reader.

Jonathan gave him a barely perceptible smirk, then picked up his wineglass and turned to hand it to the waiter. “Thanks, but I don’t drink alco - GUN!” 

Ed was ashamed that he froze for a second rather than immediately getting away from the waiter - who hadn’t been expecting Jonathan to look at him at precisely that moment - and the gun the waiter had been hiding behind uplifted menus. Instead, Jonathan leaned over the table and shoved Ed out of the way. Right as the gun went off.

No scream, no fall. Jonathan did give a small gasp. Then he sat back down again and looked at his bleeding left shoulder. “I’m alive.”

The rest of the staff subdued the traitor before he managed to shoot himself. Ed barked out orders to keep him alive and contact Poison Ivy on how to proceed. Ivy didn’t take her rage out on messengers, and Oswald never gave Ivy worse than a purely verbal chewing out. She’d be a good buffer and would be needed for the interrogation regardless.

Ed also shouted for a first-aid kit and helped Jonathan keep pressure with napkins until it arrived. This freed up Jonathan’s right hand to retrieve his phone and call Dr. Kali. It was a good thing she knew him well, because pretty much nobody else would have believed Jonathan calmly and clearly saying, “Hello, I’ve just been shot.”

“Let me talk to the doc; you’re far too sanguine,” Ed snapped.

“How humorous.” Jonathan handed over his phone and went back to pressing down on the wound with reddening white linen. 

Ed hadn’t meant to make a pun, but Jonathan being that alert was a good sign. “Shoulder. We’re about thirty minutes from your place and about ten minutes from an adequate hospital. I’m perfectly capable of first aid without guidance but I need your help deciding which way to go. We don’t want his connection with me ruining his schooling prospects among other things, but it’s not worth his life.”

Her tone was compassionate but businesslike. “Edward. Focus. Tell me the approximate bullet caliber, rate of bleeding, and how much pain Jonathan is in.”

Ed calculated the first two for her and asked Jonathan the last. Jonathan said calmly, “A considerable amount but not enough to make me faint. I want to go to her.”

With the combined data, Kali concluded, “With a good bandage, he should make the trip here fine, but he’ll likely need a transfusion if he does. If he goes to the E.R. he might not need a transfusion.”

When informed, Jonathan looked distressed for about two seconds. Ed wondered whether there was some massive significance in the choice for Jonathan that he was overlooking. “To her.”

The first-aid kit arrived. Ed sniped at the woman who’d taken so long to bring it, but outright snarled when she offered to help.

****

Jonathan was able to walk to the car while leaning heavily on Ed. He stayed quietly conscious during the drive, reclining in the passenger seat and mostly staring out the window. Ed draped his suit jacket over him in lieu of a blanket.

“I wouldn’t mind a riddle if that would help you relax,” he said at one point.

Ed replied tersely, “It’s taking all I have just to remember how to drive.”

“Quiet music?” Jonathan took some slow, even breaths. “Music can help with pain.”

They only had so many overlaps when it came to music, but Ed found a smooth jazz station and Jonathan relaxed a little more.

Kali, Leonara, Candy, and Thistle swarmed the car once Ed had parked. Candy and Leonara worked together to carry Jonathan inside, as he was now dizzy and wobbly. Thistle volunteered to clean the blood on the upholstery, unintentionally drawing Ed’s attention to it and giving him another thing to stress about. 

“Is Nefyn home?” Jonathan asked as they went through the front door. 

“All our dudes are working or sleeping right now,” Candy said. “Coincidence.”

“Nefyn’s working. We would wake him if he was here,” Leonara added. 

“Would you like us to try calling him?” Candy asked, standing back so Yoona could open the medbay door.

“No, just tell him when he gets here.”

Kali turned to Ed and asked if he was up to getting gloves on and helping. Ed nodded gratefully. He borrowed some appropriate surgical garb even though Kali was keeping it minimal for the sake of speed. He wanted to get this exactly right. Yoona helped him get set up and he went to the bathroom to sort himself out.

 _How sweet of your boy,_ his glasses-less reflection said, tapping at it like he was planning on coming through the barrier. Ed used to often call him Dark Ed, but it had been proven to be a false dichotomy over the years. Jonathan's suggestion of "Id Ed" wasn't fully accurate and was also too pat. Mirror Ed was the simplest. _He’s not telling you something. I know what it i-i-is!_

“If you wanted to startle me, I knew full well that this level of stress would trigger your arrival. And he’ll tell me when he needs to,” Ed muttered, washing his hands thoroughly. There was a sink in the medbay but he needed this moment alone with himself. Better to argue with Mirror Ed here, letting him get a dig in, rather than have him show up while Ed was working on Jonathan. The therapist Ed had begun seeing on an irregular basis said that if he still refused to try medication, perhaps there were compromises he could make with the hallucinations themselves.

 _I’m not against your body, but I am against all others,_ Mirror Ed said airily. _That’s your clue, since I’m feeling a little sorry for you. Don’t get used to it._

When he returned, Ed reminded Kali, “He and I are the only O-types among your patient base. Give him mine.”

Kali pointed at the blood bag Jonathan was already hooked up to. “I keep a cross-index, but it’s important that you remember. Now, I know you know how to do this, Edward, but this is my space and I do things my way. Don’t take umbrage at following my lead.”

“Of course not. You’re an M.D. I would have gotten Oswald to one if it had been feasible.” 

_Liar, you wanted his sole gratitude because you were so lonely,_ said a voice in his ear, his oldest hallucination having hitched a ride regardless.

 _Stay invisible when we’re not alone, at least,_ Ed thought, gritting his teeth. 

“From what I know of your brain and medications, fully sedating you would be ill-advised. I don’t think it’s necessary anyway. Do you want local anesthetic?” Kali asked Jonathan. Someone had cut his ruined shirt away, probably Yoona, who was methodically moving around the room fetching things. Yoona had no formal medical training but had assisted Kali often, and was even-tempered and steady-handed. She made for a good ad-hoc nurse. 

Jonathan nodded, his expression slightly pinched. “It’ll likely take more than other people. Ask Nygma, we’ve done experiments on...how...how I’m different. I keep losing my...my train. Of thought.”

Ed advised on how much Jonathan might need, and lingered slightly longer than necessary on every required touch as they went through the process of numbing the pain and removing the bullet.

“May I keep that?” Ed asked, pointing at the minute little horror on a tray while still dabbing at the blood clinging to Jonathan’s pale, overly cold skin. 

“Sure,” Jonathan said, watching Kali begin stitching him up with wan interest.

“If you really want,” Yoona said. “I’ll wash it off for you.”

Jonathan had a sip of the water he’d asked for earlier in the procedure. “You know, in Japan, most people believe in blood types affecting personality and compatibility. I don’t believe in it.”

“Korea as well,” Yoona said from her post at the sink. “Type Bs are supposed to be cheerful, and Candy has taped pictures of Grumpy Cat on the wall captioned, ‘Yoona on her best day ever.’”

“Heh.” Jonathan cleared his throat. “I...I might might relapse soon.”

Kali didn’t stop what she was doing, unlike the others, but she looked at his face. Ed figured it out first. “Antibodies. The antibodies, or whatever they are, that your body has developed to fight off the...your..and my blood doesn’t have them, so they’ve been diluted, and until my blood’s assimilated you’re at risk of…”

What almost felt like a phantom pat on the back. _Finally got it! Only took you a geologic eon._

Another voice, a feminine one. A memory of a memory of what Kristen had sounded like alive. _You’ve always caused massive suffering to people who love you. This’ll be just a condensed version._

“Edward!” Kali outright snapped her fingers. 

“Sorry. Yes. Worst-case scenario occurs, what do you need from us?” It wasn’t about Ed right now, it was about Jonathan. 

“First off, Yoona, go get cuffs. Wrist and ankle. That can stand up to violent thrashing. Maybe have Candy or Leonara get more comfortable clothes, I’m thinner than Nefyn but he’s borrowed my looser clothes before, to give you an idea of my size…”

 _You don’t deserve him,_ Kristen said, almost compassionately under the sting of her truth.

****

Jonathan’s prediction proved right, and Ed’s efforts to help get him shackled hand and foot to the bed resulted in Ed getting kicked in the stomach. He staggered backwards, winded, and Leonara took his place assisting Candy and Nefyn while Kali directed the operation. It was clear that if they hadn’t been worried about hurting Jonathan or exacerbating his state of terror - though from the screams, Ed wondered if that was possible - it would have gone much easier.

Eventually they succeeded. Jonathan was in utter torment but at least he was physically safe. Kali looked at Ed and told him to go rest.

Ed considered objecting, but he should probably not encourage his hallucinations by pushing himself to greater exhaustion. He could stay with Spencer and be able to return here in five minutes rather than at least an hour. Jonathan was in good hands. Nefyn in particular was looking to settle in for a long vigil, face grimly determined, and said goodbye to Ed with a measure of relief. Ed supposed he himself wouldn’t want Gertrud Kapelput, bless her soul, hanging around the entire time he was sitting at Oswald’s bedside. 

Over the phone, Spencer confirmed without hesitation that Ed could stay with him and didn’t need to explain himself until they were face-to-face. He answered the door of his little cottage wearing a light blue dressing gown covered in silk-screened green fiddlehead ferns, flannel pajama pants peeking out from underneath, and in only his mismatched socks rather than shoes. He was also wearing his glasses rather than contacts.

“Were you sleeping?” Ed asked as he entered. 

“No, just relaxing. What’s this about?” Spencer led him into the living room, which was softly lit with a standing Tiffany-style stained glass lamp. The coffee table was piled high with color-coded paper folders. There were glowing embers in the small fireplace.

Ed sighed what felt like every cubic millimeter of air out of his lungs. “Jonathan took a bullet for me. He’s recovering at Casa del Zsasz. I want to be close by.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows. “No wonder you look terrible.”

“I need to update Oswald.” Ed sat heavily on the couch, finally turned on his phone for the first time since he texted Oswald proof of life and intended destination, and made the call.

The expected tirade began immediately. “Why haven’t you been answering your phone? Ivy knew very little and Kali didn’t pick up either, and neither did any other member of the household. I’ve been sick with worry and barely had the self-control not to beat the shooter to death before you have a chance to confront him!”

“Love, this is the first moment I’ve had since the incident when I’ve neither been driving my copiously bleeding...my...my passenger nor assisting in his treatment. I apologize, but I couldn’t spare the focus. Jonathan’s wound is relatively minor but certain stresses on his body are causing him to relapse. To his hospital days.” 

Spencer made a gesture for Ed to lower his volume and pointed in the direction of the sleeping Bantam hen in her large wire cage near the back door, where she spent her unsupervised indoor time. Cordelia slept reasonably soundly but became very agitated when suddenly roused. 

Oswald’s tone softened. “Will you be staying with Spencer, then? I’d prefer seeing you tonight, but given your likely exhaustion and obvious distress…”

“Yes,” Ed said, hoping to convey through his voice how much he’d give to be in his husband’s arms right now. Despite the closeness they’d developed over the years, Spencer still subtly flinched when Oswald even gestured emphatically in his direction. There was a mutual understanding that Oswald would stay out of Spencer’s home. Besides, the closest thing to a guest bed Spencer had was the chaise lounge in his library, and that would play havoc with Oswald’s leg. “I may need to pull an Innocence Measure.” 

In exchange for them not pushing him to take medication, Ed had promised Oswald and Spencer never to be alone in a building except when safely home, and to have someone with him during any kind of excursion. And if he was hallucinating or dissociating, to never be alone in a room other than to briefly use the toilet or shower. An Innocence Measure was his (admittedly over-the-top) code phrase signifying avoidance of solitude by platonically sleeping in the same bed as Spencer like they had when they were kids. Oswald’s natural jealousy was compounded by Spencer’s extreme good looks, but tempered by the knowledge that the two truly had no interest in each other and that this was for safety.

“Oh. Oh dear. Is it that bad, Edward?”

“I’m afraid so.” He was afraid to suddenly turn his head in case he’d see someone other than Spencer standing there. 

Oswald took a deep, not entirely steady breath. “I understand, but I’d prefer you use separate sets of sheets and blankets.” 

They talked for a few minutes longer before saying goodnight. “I don’t want to talk about Jonathan’s condition,” Ed told Spencer when he hung up.

“Want some mint tea and to hear me ramble about the cases I’m working on? I also have things to eat. Of some description. I can check.” Spencer got to his feet and adjusted his sash on his kimono.

 _It’s more like a yukata,_ said a voice Ed had never heard from other than the real person before, and which Ed had most recently heard screaming.

Ed balled his hands into fists. “Yes to drink and rambling, no to food.”

Spencer started talking before he left for the kitchen, forcing Ed to follow him there if he wanted to continue listening. While Spencer still excelled when it came to illicit games of poker and blackjack, along with educated betting on sporting events, people were getting wise to the Reader’s skills. “Nicholas Anderson” made decent money buying and selling stocks through an online service, operating according to elaborate formulas and massive amounts of aggregated data. The most absorbing of his solo endeavors for him these days were results of his built-up reputation. Consulting. Many kinds. 

Some brewing later, Spencer was sitting on a stool at the breakfast counter and gesturing wildly with sugar cube tongs in one hand. He talked like he expected to be cut off any moment. “...And I figured out that the spate of minor accidents and things going missing at my client’s portion of the dockside territory wasn’t a result of outside sabotage or a single traitor. It was a quiet group rebellion by rank and file henchpeople who felt underappreciated. Disposable. A few had been pretty much sacrificed in a recent GCPD raid. So I advised that, instead of harsh discipline, the overlords make caring gestures towards the arrested henchpeople or their bereaved families, and show concern for the well-being of current ones. Perhaps an optional buy-in life insurance policy, or bonuses for excellent performance like Mooney does with her employees.”

“When she’s not irrevocably maiming their legs,” Ed muttered darkly as he stirred his tea - Spencer tended to serve hot drinks about two degrees shy of boiling. Oswald had not only forgiven Mooney but allied with her. Ed continued to politely interact with her, or speak of her, through gritted smiles and passive-aggression. “But I am glad for your success.”

“Productivity has notably increased!” Spencer concluded with a hint of smugness. His emotional intelligence dropped sharply while he’d been invited to talk about his interests. He stopped noticing much else. “Also I’ve been working with Fries lately to see if he can reduce the chances of frostbite or hypothermia in the people he freezes in the course of a mission before they’re found and thawed. Fries doesn’t actually like killing people if he can help it, in profiling language we would call him a…”

Eight-year-old Spencer appeared on a stool next to the adult one, dangling his legs and stirring a virgin grasshopper milkshake. He adjusted his huge grandpa-glasses before looking Ed in the eye. _Remember when I convinced you after I ordered one at a restaurant that it would contain literal grasshoppers that had never had sex? And Mom gave the game away by finally laughing after several minutes of effort?_

Ed strove to listen to the real one, who’d paused long enough for a sip of tea but was raring off again. “...Teaching myself how to do some basic genetic testing in order to see if I can glean something about Thistle’s family background. Approximately 2,300 Americans are reported missing every day, but she’s likely presumed dead if not officially declared dead, making the odds even slimmer that anyone....”

 _I like Thistle because she reminds me of myself,_ the child said. Ed noticed the stirs and sips were synchronized. _Which I suppose makes you Hugo Strange in this scenario._

“I know you have grievances, but don’t you dare!”

Spencer stopped and looked at the empty air that Ed was looking at. He looked back and said with excruciatingly genuine kindness, “I’ve promised never to harass you to eat, but you’re shaking. I can read with a mini book light next to you if you want to lie down.”

****

“Are those question marks on your boxers?” Spencer asked, amused. He was joining Ed in brushing teeth and sundries so that Ed didn’t have to be as anxious about looking in the mirror.

“They only came in black and white,” Ed groused. Spencer laughed. 

Spencer’s bed wasn’t as wide as Ed and Oswald’s, but there was enough space for them not to touch. Spencer had enough spare bedding for them to each have their own set. He granted Ed’s request to claim the comforter as well, for the, well, comforting weight of it. 

“Do you see anything or anyone you know isn’t really there?” Spencer asked as he settled into his side of the bed. Ed had already swaddled himself as tightly as he could. It was not among the things he was ashamed of.

“Jonathan, as I first met him, is lying on the floor,” Ed said slowly. “As though the doctors and nurses had dumped him there.”

“Is he saying or doing anything?”

“He’s holding the flowers I gave him, like he’s the body at a funeral.” Also he was bleeding from the current Jonathan’s wound, but Ed didn’t feel like mentioning that. Thin as Ed hoped never to see anyone he cared about again, phantom Jonathan’s chest was barely rising and falling. His eyes were open and staring up. 

“Shall I turn out the light?”

“I would rather see him with the light on than see him without the light on.” Ed twisted his head around and looked at Spencer. “Read aloud to me? Please?”

“If you like, but I’m reading a memoir in French.” 

“Fine, good, just - I want a real voice.”

Spencer patted Ed’s bundle roughly where his chest was. “Okay. It’s hopeful but not the most jolly, and considering the nature of your hallucination, the hospital setting might not be the best even if you have limited comprehension.”

“I don’t care.” 

Spencer cleared his throat and began in soft, measured tones. “Jean-Dominique Bauby, _Le Scaphandre Et Le Papillon_...”

When Ed woke in the gray dawn from a vaguely unpleasant dream, Spencer was slumped forward over the book, glasses askew, and the lamp was still on. Ed set the book and glasses aside and arranged him into a more relaxed pose. He switched off the lamp, resolved to try to sleep another hour or two, and maybe make breakfast as a token of thanks. 

He whispered, “I can end a war or mend a heart, but I am the most difficult of gifts to grant. What am I?”

Hospital Jonathan had gone back to being an auditory hallucination rather than a gut-wrenching visual. And as he had in real life, Jonathan replied, with nothing but mild curiosity, _Is that a riddle or a song lyric?”_

“Forgiveness,” Spencer replied, literally in his sleep, before nestling further into the covers his cousin had pulled over him. 

Ed slept a little better this time. He’d visit Jonathan soon.


	7. Render Me a Wreck (2/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Caroline and Vee, mentioned here, are lovingly borrowed from irisbleufic's [Delicate, Dangerous, Obsessed](https://archiveofourown.org/series/726708) AU series.
> 
> TW: While the acts themselves are not shown, the implied/referenced torture here is more intense than usual for this series.

Ed felt himself being nudged awake. “Os…?”

“No, it’s me, it’s just that you sounded like you were having a bad nightmare and you’ve previously requested to be woken if it that happens.” Spencer handed Ed his glasses.

“I dreamed you were…”

Spencer sat on the edge of the bed. “What? We agreed you have to be as honest with me about your mental state as you want me to be with you.”

“I still wonder what possessed me to do that,” Ed muttered. He continued slowly, wearily. “I dreamed that Oswald and I had everyone who worked in the restaurant killed, and you were angry at what you saw as disproportionate retribution. And you threatened to go out and buy or steal more hydromorphone unless I injected you with the old formula of Paper Crane, before you and I and Jonathan made so much progress reducing the potentially emotionally abusive psychological side effects. You said I’ve broken you so much, go ahead, do it a bit more, it’s the only reason you like me anyway.”

“Ed…” Spencer had relapsed once into addiction after he read in the news that his godson had been taken hostage, though ultimately retrieved safely. Ed had supervised his detox, neglecting everything else, and later encouraged Spencer to carefully attend Narcotics Anonymous meetings under his fake name. At least the initials matched pleasingly.

“And then you said you’d mixed it with much more of the active ingredient than usual, and I looked at the needle and it was full of Jonathan’s blood, completely red, just dripping it, on your hands and onto the floor, and then I heard him.”

“Journalist Philippos Syrigos wrote: _My best dreams and worst nightmares have the same people in them._ I love you for several different reasons.” Spencer hugged him.

Ed hugged back, though noting what carefully had not been said. He accepted the mercy. “I love you for many that I find difficult to categorize,” he murmured into Spencer’s shoulder.

After a long moment, Spencer asked, “What would make you feel better right now? I have some guesses but I’ll let you decide.”

“Can’t have me without swift breaking, can’t enjoy me without one making.” Ed wasn’t sure he’d be able to eat anything, but cooking would give him something to do.

“There’s the ingredients for French toast if you want to work on that while I tell you my idea for special chapters of NA and AA specifically for Gotham’s underworld, who only become inefficient or needlessly brutal from addiction,” Spencer said, releasing his hold. “I haven’t had breakfast yet, was busy. Cordelia likes foraging early so I’ve already let her out. At her age she’s laying less than she used to, but…”

Ed followed him into the morning.

****

Spencer had developed an enthusiasm for long walks ever since Ed kept him chained in a room for a few months - funny that - and he suggested Ed join him after breakfast for one of his standard loops. “It’s a nice summer day by dreary Gotham standards, and you can break off from me after the first twenty minutes when we pass by Casa del Zsasz. I’ll pay a visit today, but I don’t want to infringe on yours.”

“Oswald has sent you reminders not to leave me alone, hasn’t he?” Ed asked. As predicted, he had little appetite, but he hadn’t really had dinner last night so he was making an effort. He hadn’t had the energy to dress to his usual standards, either, grabbing an only-slightly wrinkled shirt from one of the three he kept in Spencer’s closet and one out of four sets of underwear and socks. He was re-wearing the pants he’d arrived in because the two spares were too warm and too cheerful for today, respectively.

“Yes, but I am fully capable of making my own observations regarding what might help you be safe.” Spencer was putting an absurd amount of syrup on his French toast. Like Jonathan always did. Pair of hummingbirds.

 _You’re no good to me if you pass out on the way there, Mr. Nygma,_ said Jonathan’s phantom. Ed forced down another bite.

Before they left, Ed saw Spencer open a secret compartment in one of his desk drawers and take out his old FBI badge. Ed had returned it to him for if he ever needed to impersonate a current officer, or if revealing his identity was somehow the preferable option in a crisis. Spencer rarely carried it for fear of it being found on him when it was not the preferable option.

“Vague speculation that it might come in handy today, still working it out in my head,” Spencer said as he tucked it into his pocket. Ed didn’t press. He tried to give Spencer as much privacy as was prudent and/or Oswald would allow.

During the walk together, Spencer coaxed Ed into sharing details of some of his favorite crime scenes during his GCPD days. When they got to the house and knocked, Candy opened the door. “Hi! Good morning as, like, the situation allows. When you’re done visiting Jonathan, I gotta talk to you about a chat your husband had with me.”

“With you?”

She nodded and waved at Spencer with a smile before ushering Ed in. “But I don’t think you’re gonna pay any attention until you’ve seen him. I promised Thistle more safe-cracking practice and she happens to be free. Send someone to get me. Victor got home about ten minutes ago if you want to check in with him. He’s busy eating half the fridge.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Ed replied. “How is Jonathan? Don’t sugarcoat it.”

“Um. I’m not sure stable is the word. No worse. Consistent. Boot the faithful sleepless owlet out. Maybe with a literal kick.” She led Ed down the hall, past the living room where Kali was in an exhausted sprawl on the couch with a book she wasn’t really reading and a cup of tea on the floor within easy reach.

“We’re doing what we can,” she said when Ed passed by. “Vital signs are strong. He’s just as much a fighter as anyone else here.”

“I’m sure you are, thank you,” Ed said dutifully. He couldn’t hear Jonathan, but he knew during the original ordeal years ago Jonathan had periodically passed out for a few hours.

Candy didn’t follow him into the room. Nefyn was in an ergonomic desk chair from another part of the house, leaning forward and holding Jonathan’s hand. His smart phone was playing a song from an album Jonathan had introduced to Ed, one which appealed to Ed’s lesser-known love of ballads and folklore even when one of the songs seemed gratuitously shocking. Ed drew few lines but one was paternal infanticide.

This was one of the best ones, if he remembered correctly, and he understood why Nefyn had chosen it to keep him and Jonathan company.

 _O gray river, your waters ramble wild_  
_The horses shiver and bite against the bridle_  
_But I will cross if mine own horse is pulled from me_  
_Though my mother cries that if I try, I sure will drowned be_  
_Will drowned be, will drowned be_  
_But if you calm and let me pass_  
_You may render me a wreck when I come back…_

Nefyn looked like a wreck already, gray as that lyrical river and with what looked like dried blood in his hair from the job he’d only just returned from last night. His world had narrowed to a single focal point. Ed knew Nefyn loved Jonathan regardless of their consensual infidelity and Jonathan’s inability to repay that love in the same currency. He’d seen ample proof, but had never seen it cast into such sharp relief.

“Have you been here since I left?” Ed realized Jonathan wasn’t passed out. That there was another state he could be in.

“Pretty much,” Nefyn said, looking at Ed but not letting go of Jonathan. “I’ve been playing music to him, and, and when he was relatively quiet I told him a few funny stories. In case he could hear. Sometimes he just cries like he’s doing now instead of screaming, but he switches back eventually.”

“Stop, stop, please stop,” Jonathan whimpered between dry, tired sobs. Ed curled his hands into fists, the nails biting into his palms. Grounding. This was not time for his own personal Greek chorus.

“Do you want to sit in this chair? I could use a bit of standing time.”

Ed imagined if it were Oswald, the only possible worse scenario, even if by a small margin. He tried to sound gentle. “Actually, I’d like to be alone with him. I know it’s not entirely rational, but…”

“That’s fine. I’ll wait outside.” Nefyn let go of Jonathan’s hand like he was afraid it would shatter. Then he turned off the music and took his phone with him.

His mirror self slipped into his ear, sneering: _You love him like a father, so I suppose it’s fitting you love him like his real father did, specifically. With similar effects. You’re a stickler for detail._

“I don’t want to argue with you in front of him,” Ed growled, then immediately felt ridiculous.

 _He’s fighting someone a lot worse than me._ _Which puts in perspective what a wimp you’ve always been._

Unexpectedly, Kristen’s voice said, _Ignore that one. Sit down. Sit there. Do something slightly right with your love for someone. It’s not much but it’s something._

_Why do you have to be such a cow, Kringle?_

_You made him hide most of my body in a morgue drawer and my hand in a vending machine when he was considering turning himself in, you jackass._

_Lady, that was more than six years ago. Seriously._

“I don’t think I’m doing very well,” Ed told Jonathan. He couldn’t bring himself to try holding his hand. At least it was a comfort to see how well Kali and the rest had set Jonathan up, that he was being looked after. He sat there for a long time, but was ashamedly relieved when Oswald called.

****

It felt odd being in a Zsaszette’s bedroom, but Oswald wanted a confidential conference call between himself, Ed, and Candy, and that was the most secure option. Everyone knew better than to go into Candy’s room without permission.

“Leo’s not put off by screaming, and she’s got a tender marshmallow center when it comes to family,” Candy said she closed the door behind them. “She won’t abandon Jonathan.”

Ed had a sip of the freshly-squeezed orange juice Thistle had foisted upon him on their way up the stairs. She’d also been carrying C4. He’d been here enough times that he was prepared for background events consisting of apparent non sequiturs. “I assume Nefyn finally went to go rest.”

Candy smirked. “Victor had to carry him off like a caveman, but yes. He’s probably getting a can of therapeutic whoop-ass.” She gestured for Ed to sit in her one chair while she perched on the cushioned window seat.

Ed made the call. “Oswald?”

Oswald sounded concerned and a bit tired himself. Ed wondered how much he’d slept last night without even a brother-figure for company. “Yes, Ed. How is he?”

“Jonathan is safe and in capable hands,” Ed said, and quickly changed the subject. “I have an idea why you want Candy in on this.”

“If your idea is that this was ordered by a member of what remains of the Maroni gang, yes. I think it would be best if you came home for some rest before I take you to see the attempted assassin…”

Candy very audibly scoffed. “Amateur.”

“I’m sending Caroline to pick you up. She knows the way and I doubt you driving home alone is the best for you.”

Caroline was a soothing presence and Ed’s favorite of their drivers. “I suppose not having Jonathan with me to keep me focused would be detrimental. Spencer could return my car another time?”

“That’s the spirit. She’ll be there in about an hour, then. Give me a moment to text her and then I want to know the extent of Candace’s familiarity with ‘Mickey Mustang’. We’ll talk about Bob Gotti when your entire family is available to plan an attack.”

She laughed so hard she clutched at her stomach. “I could write pages on Bobti, as we called him, and I want at least one of his teeth as a trophy. But Mickey’s stopped being just an errand boy, huh? They’ve got to be scraping the bottom of the barrel if they’ve got the guy who used to fetch the coffee and dry cleaning trying to take down Riddler. Though maybe they figure he’s disposable. He might remember me. Tell him I wanted a soy latte, not skim milk as he repeatedly got instead, but I didn’t want to be ‘a whiny pansy’ in front of Sal. And that maybe if he hadn’t also mocked my ‘girly’ taste in suits I might have some pity. I’ll let you use my birth name because he never knew my real one, and 'he' to refer strictly to my pre-Zsasz self if he'd get confused otherwise.” Oswald and Ed knew what it was because they’d given her some help smoothing things over with the DMV in a more subtle manner than taking a hostage.

Oswald coughed. “Petty victory aside, what can you tell us about him as a person? Think on it and tell me after I call back.”

****

Ed spent the time waiting for Caroline sitting with Jonathan some more. A drowsy Zsasz in a fuzzy Cookie Monster bathrobe poked his head into the medbay to check in. “Both bathrooms upstairs are occupied, can you believe it?! How are ya?! I mean, Crane boy’s still screaming, but you look like you’re screaming internally!”

“Fine,” Ed lied, barely loud enough by the looks of Zsasz cupping one ear. “How’s Nefyn?”

“Sleeping! All tuckered out! Snugger than a slug bug in a thug’s rug! I’m not untying him till the cuddle quota’s been reached!”

“It would have been enough to say ‘okay’,” Ed grumbled, but not loudly enough to be heard over Jonathan, whose voice was starting to sound cracked and dry.

“I’m going back up there in a moment!” Zsasz shouted, closing the door tightly behind him.

****

“Don’t untie me until the cuddle quota’s been reached,” Ed panted about two hours later. Hypocrisy shmipocrisy. It was a deft turn of phrase.

Oswald put his glass of water back on the nightstand, then returned to the bed and draped his bad leg over Ed’s thighs. He could only lie on top of his good one. “If I could bend time and space, we might be here forever, but I’m worried about how little you’ve eaten since it happened. Spencer snitched on you. Olga’s making that minestrone recipe you like.”

Ed just nosed at the crook of Oswald’s neck and shoulder until his chin found its preferred slot. Oswald petted his sweat-damp hair. “Maybe I should shower.” Oswald had swallowed away the evidence and so he wasn’t sticky or anything, but hot water would make him feel better. He wouldn’t fear showering if he didn’t have to be alone. Besides, he would enjoy checking himself for new fingertip bruises and bite marks.

“One should always be well-groomed when showing someone your displeasure,” Oswald agreed softly. “There’s time to take a breath. Shh, stop thinking, close your eyes. You’re allowed to be glad you’re alive, or did you forget?”

“I’m glad I haven’t broken your heart,” Ed replied. Oswald kissed his eyelids.

****

Partway through lunch, Ed paused in eating when a thought struck him and made a quick phone call. He stayed in Oswald’s presence so he wouldn’t worry. “Hello, Dr. Helga Keillor? It’s Connor Nundrum again.”

As always, Oswald facepalmed at this fake name, but it wasn’t supposed to fool Helga. Helga knew who she was dealing with. It was supposed to give her plausible deniability if someone tapped her phone.

She didn’t sound frightened by him anymore, not like she had the time he first showed up to her office to make a deal with her. “Yes, Mr. Nundrum?”

“I’m afraid my friend will likely not be able to make it to his next session with you. If he’s feeling better significantly before your next session, he may reschedule. Otherwise he’ll simply see you in two weeks as usual. I believe I’m canceling far enough in advance to not incur any monetary fees. However, as you are not the one doing the cancelling, you will still receive documentation of your next Lima Bean within the week.”

“I understand. Is he alright?”

“He will be. I’ll let him explain.”

“If I may be so bold, are you alright?”

“You’re not my therapist, Dr. Keillor.” Ed hung up. Among other things, Ed’s therapist could simply be bribed not to report the Riddler’s secrets. Jonathan’s therapist was an excessively good person, but Jonathan hadn’t wanted to switch. Three years ago, when Jonathan got tired of censoring himself in therapy but also didn't want to threaten her, he and Ed asked Spencer to come up with a profile of Helga to determine what technique would work best to keep her silent when the law would require her to violate patient confidentiality. Now they had the Lima Bean system, named after Lima Syndrome, in which captors developed intense empathy for their captives. For every session she had with Jonathan, someone’s who would otherwise die in the machinations the Kings of Gotham would be spared. Lima Syndrome was based on an incident in Lima, Peru. The Bean part was a pun.

Meanwhile, she ever reported Jonathan to the police, an equivalent number to all the Lima Beans thus far would die. That didn’t count as threatening her well-being. After the initial shock she’d started compartmentalizing and treated Jonathan about the same as she had before. Jonathan reminded her periodically that without her he’d be worse.

“I’ve already alerted the team on a scheduled robbery,” Oswald said, reaching over to pat Ed’s hand. Lima Beans tended to be inoffensive individuals who wouldn’t be much of a liability, only slightly inconvenient to keep alive. Nobody who didn’t know about Jonathan knew why they did this. Fortunately “one of those Riddler things” worked as an explanation.

“Thank you. You only hit Mr. Mustang a few times, right?”

Oswald nodded. “I shoved some pins up his fingernails as well. Nothing major. I wanted to keep him fresh for you. Finish your lunch and we can go.”

****

Gabe had been working for Oswald since before Ed, and Vee had proven herself many times over the past few years. They were the perfect choices to guard the attempted assassin. They didn’t know about Jonathan, though, or anything about the Reader’s unmasked identity. They’d never needed to.

Mustang was bound to a chair, gagged and blindfolded. Apparently he’d yapped a bit, knowing they weren’t allowed to hurt him much until Ed showed up. Ed ripped off the tape over his mouth and gloried in the squawk from facial hair being yanked out.

This was going to be fun. The Riddler was considerably more confident when in full costume and allowed to take the reins. Including tie pin and cufflinks. “Hello. Did you miss me? Oh wait! You did!”

Licking his raw lips, Mustang said, “Took you awhile to show up. Too busy crying over that twink you were wining and dining behind Penguin’s back?”

Oswald patted Mustang’s cheek. For Vee and Gabe’s benefit, as well, he said, “With my full knowledge and consent, Riddler was having a meeting with an exceptional spy in our employ whom we obviously can’t publicize. Said young man is recovering nicely, by the way. It only made sense for the man he took a bullet for to make arrangements for his care. Sorry to interrupt, my dear, I just wanted to clarify for all.”

“Of course. Give me some room? And Gabe, bring me the tool selection? In case I get tired of my switchblade.” Riddler undid the blindfold. Mustang squinted in the sudden light. “You’ve already told us everything we need to know. This is simply catharsis for me. Though if you answer my riddle correctly, I’ll shave an hour off the time before I let you die, how about that?”

Mustang’s eyes flicked to Riddler’s beloved switchblade as he pulled it out of his pocket. “What’s the riddle?”

“You knew him as a general, I know her as a sweet. His existence was ephemeral, and she basks in your defeat. One minute on the clock.” The Riddler tapped his watch.

When time was up, Mustang cursed under his breath. “What?”

“We call her Candy, but Cesar spoke of your incompetence and rudeness, particularly when it came to coffee and clothes.”

“Cesar the goddamn traitor?”

The Riddler flicked out the blade and pressed it to Mustang’s neck. He did love a neck. “We-e-ell, traitor, defector, it all depends how you look at it. She told us that one time out drinking with the guys - you made fun of her love of cocktails, by the way, you made fun of her a lot, hostile workplace culture it sounds like - you said you have a recurring nightmare where your tongue gets split right down -”

Mustang started sobbing. “Oh, shit, no, no, no please, don’t…”

“There’s a ring gag here. And tongs. How thoughtful.” Jonathan had no interest in violence if it wasn’t for scientific purposes or survival, so there was no need to take pictures. The Riddler became unselfconsciously absorbed very quickly.

  
****

There were only a few custom ringtones Ed would have stopped for. It was a censored version of “Private Eye” by Alkaline Trio. _I dragged this lake looking for corpses, dusting for prints, pried up the floorboards…_

The Riddler sighed and put down the sanding block. _...And I’ve been preoccupied with these sick, sixth senses…_

Mustang gurgled. The Riddler waved off everyone else. Oswald got closer to the chair to see the damage better. _...At the right place at the right time, I’ll be dead wrong and you’ll be just fine. I won’t have to quit doing f-ed up sh-t for anyone but me…_

The Riddler stripped off his surgical gloves and dropped them in the trash can. _You won't have to stop saying "I love cops" for anyone but me..._

Ed was the one who picked up the phone. "Is he - has something happened?”

Spencer said, "Jonathan regained lucidity for a few minutes before relapsing. Kali and I agree that’s likely a good sign, showing he’s on the road towards shaking it off.”

“Then why do you sound so worried?”

“Um. Well. When he regained lucidity...”

“Out with it.”

“He couldn’t remember anything that happened after his father gave him that overdose. He thought he was fifteen. I took out my badge and told him I was a consultant on the case and he was in a secure, private location because he was a witness to a very sensitive and high-profile case. It calmed him.”

“I’ll be there as fast as I can.” Oswald could carry on the torch. Perhaps literally.

****

Jonathan wasn’t lucid when Ed arrived for his second visit. He was being not-lucid fairly quietly, though.

Spencer patted Ed’s shoulder awkwardly. “Jonathan knows I spent years obsessed with curing schizophrenia, and thus studied neurology in general on my own while working in other disciplines more officially. He’s done consensual experiments with me to try to understand himself better. I wondered this morning whether his brain might, in a sense, reboot itself as he regains the ability to fight off the lingering inoculation effects. I thought my old badge would help convince him to listen to a reassuring lie until he could be eased into the truth. I didn’t tell you earlier because I was still developing the idea, and because I thought it’d upset you.”

Ed sagged. “What if when he’s permanently lucid he still thinks he’s fifteen?”

“Then we’ll all take care of and love that version of him just as much,” Spencer said. “Though I hope Nefyn wouldn’t try to rekindle…”

“If he did I would kill him, no matter what Zsasz would do in retaliation,” Ed said grimly.

“Scarecrow,” Jonathan whimpered, trying to undo his right wrist cuff while making himself as small as possible. His blanket was all twisted and not covering him properly. Ed straightened it. Jonathan looked up at him as if he could really see him, but Ed’s hope was dashed when Jonathan’s blank stare turned into terror again and his escape attempt became more frantic.

****

Ed decided to go home rather than Spencer’s place. There was too much guilt there for him right now. Which of course meant he missed Jonathan’s second lucid phase.

“Still thought he was fifteen. I’m afraid I screwed up, Ed. He saw my phone and how modern it is. Realized I was lying.”

“Former BAU Special Agent Dr. Spencer “The Reader” Reid, Ph.D! I wish I remembered your middle name!”

Oswald turned his head from his side of the sofa to look at Ed, worried. They’d just finished dinner and were watching some documentary about Art Nouveau on low volume.

“I’m sorry. I fetched Nefyn, who showed him pictures of the two of them together, sometimes with Harley, and eventually convinced him of the truth in a way that made him stop panicking. They even bonded a bit. Kali says Jonathan can have the footage from the medbay security camera.”

“He’s screaming again?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

That night, at Ed’s request, Oswald wrung him out and made him cry for much better reasons.

****

Finally, Jonathan woke for real. The Jonathan he knew.

When Ed got to the house, Jonathan was lying propped up on the couch texting one-handed, probably Harley. Someone had brought him fresh clothes from his own home, but he was wearing one of Nefyn’s cardigans, lightweight and appropriate for someone easily chilled indoors in June. Ed could tell because it was vividly cobalt and azure striped and hand-knit, almost certainly by Leonara. His hair was damp from hasty towelling. There was a rehydration drink and some lightly buttered toast on the coffee table with a few nibbles taken from it. Nefyn had his feet in his lap and was rubbing salve onto his ankles where the restraints had bit into his skin.

“Your dad’s here,” Nefyn said, poking him in the stomach. Ed didn’t have the energy to argue.

Jonathan carefully got to his feet. “I’m told you were worried sick.”

“You expected me not to be?”

“I’m told you felt guilty.”

“I repeat my previous question. If I’d just moved when you shouted -”

Jonathan crossed his arms. “Nygma. The entire point of everything I went through was to make me unafraid. Yours was the normal response. Don’t ruin that one silver lining for me.”

“I, um. Okay.”

“Also, there are twenty people in this world I would be sad about if they died. Of those, there are eight whom I would put myself in significant peril to help. Of those, there are three I would automatically and without hesitation risk my safety for.” Jonathan looked back at the medbay. “I saw the footage of fifteen-year-old me, more or less. I remember bits and pieces of what happened during this time. Mostly Nefyn’s maudlin music choices.”

“You loved it,” Nefyn said, and stuck his tongue out.

“I know I’m still emotional in certain ways and under the surface, but I’d forgotten that I used to be all the time. I used to be a kid who would’ve regularly hugged someone I care about as much as you. What I did was one of the most genuine things I’ve done for a long time. Don’t you dare take that from me.” He stared into Ed’s eyes, defiant.

Ed wasn’t sure if this was a hugging moment, so he held out his hand. “Secret handshake?”

They did the secret handshake, then Jonathan hugged him so hard he went ‘oof’. “I’m kinda touchy feely by my standards. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

****

The household came together to discuss going after Bob Gotti, Oswald on speakerphone again. Oswald didn’t have time to come all the way out there. Thistle brought drinks for everyone. Jonathan didn’t have much appetite, but he was back to his old “cocoa-slut" ways , and she’d added a little whipped cream. He stole a few of Nefyn’s sprinkles, clearly aware that he could get away with absolutely anything for awhile. Spencer was putting a horrifying amount of creamer in his coffee. He was there to consult and to create a profile based on what Candy and Mustang had said about Gotti. On Ed’s latte, without prompting, Thistle had made a question mark out of decorative green sugar.

Candy, of course, had a soy latte. Her smile when she sipped it suggested a stark contrast to Mickey Mustang, erstwhile errand boy, now a fine mince mixed into fertilizer. Leonara was looking at Jonathan appraisingly and miming knitting motions in the air. She, Nefyn, and Kali had all gone for chai. Yoona had sinister-looking home-brewed kombucha.

“You’ve been the apprentice for rather long, haven’t you?” Ed asked Thistle. She hadn’t shaved this morning. One could see the new prickles beginning to emerge from all her body hair follicles.

“We’ve made an exception because she needs more help adjusting to you know, life, not just being an assassin,” Zsasz said, stirring his blindingly orange Thai iced tea. Thistle had recently discovered she knew how to make it.

Nefyn interlaced his fingers with Jonathan’s free hand, milking the touchy-feely phase for all it was worth. “We’re thinking I’m going to go to the guy's mansion ahead of time and hide in one of the secret emergency exits Candy knows about. That way when anyone tries to escape this way I can deal with them quickly and quietly.”

“It’ll be hilarious,” Candy said. “I’m jealous.”

“However, if you preferred I stayed with you…”

“No, you should go. I’ll stay at Harley’s safehouse until I’m feeling more myself,” Jonathan said. “She’s been freaking out even with Ivy reassuring her.”

Ed was slightly disappointed, but he’d probably fuss over Jonathan too much if he were in the same house as him for an extended time. “I was thinking you and me could do some experiments on Gotti before I kill him.”

“I’d like that,” Jonathan said, taking a sip of his drink.

“Slowly,” Kali advised. “You might have trouble accurately determining pain for a day or two, including scalding temperatures.”

Thistle raised her hand. Yoona made a ‘go ahead’ gesture. “Jonathan, I sat with you sometimes. Were you talking about a scarecrow?”

“Yes. Did nobody tell you that’s sort of a thing for me? Why?”

She twisted a paper napkin in her fingers. “I didn’t know. And I don't talk about Indian Hill much to anyone. One night when I was there and pretending to sleep before they knew how little I slept, I heard Strange talking to Peabody as they walked past my cell. She confirmed that ‘the hospital’ hadn’t noticed ‘the acquisition’, and he said no, they had no suspicions about 'theirs', ‘though if we could get our version of him to stop incessantly babbling about scarecrows, that’d be preferable.’”

Jonathan dropped his mug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there going to be a story where this AU version of Jonathan, who predates the announcement that he was even coming back in canon, is going to rescue one more like the newly arrived s4 version? Is everything is going to be so much better for the wee broken birb? Is it going to be its own story instead of a chapter in this collection (which is nowhere done yet)? When it is, will you be able to simply click 'Next Story'?
> 
> I dunno, maybe. ;)


End file.
